A Phantom's Blood
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: With a desperate desire to change the past, Christine finds the impossible near some ancient standing stones – and falls centuries into a medieval world and a destiny fated-to-be with the man known as Le Masque. Only she can save them, before death's cruel hand separates them for all time. An E/C historical fantasy sequel - Heavily inspired by D.G.s Outlander and similar tales
1. Chapter 1

_**She cried out in the night to change the tragedy of their past**_

 _ **and entered a world beyond anything imagined -**_

 _ **held within it, the key to her darkest prayer...**_

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 **A/N: I give you another E-C PotO historical fantasy sequel to the movie, inspired by D.G.'s Outlander and other time travel historicals I've read, like those of K.M. Moning (None of these in public domain, so while some aspects might be similar, I tried not to follow closely). This tale is riddled with my own twists and turns and lore (some factual, some my own ideas). I decided NOT to go with Scotland or the issues either of the above authors chose – mainly for my story plot to make sense. I needed this close to Paris. With research, I found the perfect place for a story of this nature…Not sure how to classify this tale, except, like all my stories it has a little of everything (angst, drama, romance, mystery, suspense, humor, etc) and is still, as always, strongly PotO. And (big surprise lol), I don't own the characters of Phantom of the Opera, but originals are mine. ;-) That said, this story, (like all my stories) IS protected by copyright. Rated M for all the usual reasons (mainly adult situations, graphic sex and some violence) …**

 **And now...**

* * *

 **I**

Brittany lay by the sea, an iridescent jewel cloaked in ancient magic with tales of enchantment woven into its fiber. It was here that Brocéliande stood, the mythical forest where Arthur from legend received his magical sword. In the silence of the centuries, it was said that the misty air oft stirred with the echoes of Faeries that once made these lands their home. And on this night following Midsummer's eve, one could almost hear a stirring in the air…

Christine Daae felt far from enchanted. Indeed, she wished to be anywhere but here and only one place in particular.

Without warning, the forest floor threatened to rise up and smother her in its mossy green shroud. She staggered beneath the pull of the shifting sod. Raoul grabbed hold of her arm as she felt her legs give way.

"Christine! My dear, be careful. The ground is so uneven here, I would not wish you to take a fall." He looked at her white face and tightly drawn lips. "Perhaps we should return."

She managed to curb the swoon he misjudged as a stumble and gather the tattered remnants of her necessary detachment as she stared hard at the remains of a burned out crofter's cottage beneath a low overhang of trees. Set off by itself, it was the only ruin of an ancient civilization in the vicinity, though she'd been told more ruins were scattered throughout Brittany.

"Are they sure it's him?" Her words came at last, stilted and cold.

He shot her a curious look. "The messenger told me they found a body of a man beneath the Opera House, in the lake. Who else could it be? All the gendarmes and cast members are accounted for."

Who else indeed?

"But are they _sure_?"

"He can no longer harm or haunt us, Christine." A triumphant ring to his words, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny slipped his hand through her arm, turning her around, again urging her along the twisting path. Mistaking her dedication to know for the fear of being found. "At last, we can do as we've long wanted, and live our lives in complete freedom. Once you are well rested and have taken a bit more time to put this unfortunate incident behind you, we will discuss wedding plans…"

She walked woodenly beside him as he prattled merrily on about the life he planned for them. He spoke as if it was an easy thing to strip away a decade of her existence, and seal it away, as if in a tomb…a tomb. Oh, God. She could scarcely believe that in these last days her Angel had found his own watery grave.

"Perhaps we should hold the ceremony in the church here, by the sea. Would you like that Lotte?"

They had reached the clearing and its expanse of manicured land so different from the wild forest. An ancient chateau from the middle ages that looked more like a gingerbread castle of stone, with three round turrets and silver cone roofs, sprawled on the hill before them. He had told her, when they left the Opera House that fated night that she would want for nothing. He had told her, when he arranged for this trip to his cousin's chateau that the respite in Brittany, a half day's ride from Paris, would do her good. He had told her she would soon forget…

The stream of platitudes rose up and threatened to choke her with their falseness, the sudden need to take back some of her too readily yielded control rising strongly within.

"Raoul, I never said I would marry you."

"At the Opera House…"

"So much has changed since that night. We agreed, then, that we wouldn't speak of such things. Not yet."

She had given Erik her engagement ring. When Raoul found out, he'd been furious.

A week ago exactly, in the lair's bedchamber hours before her fight with Raoul, her Maestro had coldly ordered her to strip off all her clothing from the Don Juan Opera.

Horrified, she had gaped at him. "Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh – _Angel?_ "

She spat the endearment in derision, heart pounding at his nearness so soon after their fiery embrace onstage, startled at the realization that she ached for his kiss, for the heat of his hard, lean body against hers…stunned by the knowledge that her accusation to him would not be unwanted. She had viciously shaken her head to dislodge such salacious thoughts. She, Christine Daae, her papa's good girl, could _never_ desire a murderer…

Her fallen angel had stared at her with narrowed eyes, a riveting mix of blue and silver, and shoved a dress of white satin and lace into her hands. A wedding dress.

"I am no angel, only a man."

"Men have names," she retorted in frosty tones.

"I am Erik."

"I don't understand, Christine." Raoul's voice brought her back to the present. "At the Bal Masque, you were glowing over our secret engagement. Now, when we have the opportunity to move forward without fear of his reprisal, you hold back. What has changed?"

What has changed? _What has changed?!_

A better question: how had it come to this?

She felt on the verge of hysteria, unable to deal with such obtuse questions, not so soon after learning –

"Please, Raoul. I'm exhausted. Let us return to the chateau. I told you, I need time."

She moved ahead, giving him no choice but to walk with her or linger behind. He grabbed her arm and turned her swiftly to face him. Before she could question, his lips covered hers. It was a kiss that bordered on possession yet wavered at the fringes of decorum. As if he wished to make her his but worried his impulsive act might offend her.

She wished that it did offend if not excite, wished to feel at least a spark of the fire she'd felt only once before in her life, wished to feel _something_ instead of this emptiness that ran so deep inside her soul ….

He broke the kiss as swiftly as he'd begun it, his dark blue eyes forlorn at her lack of response. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, looking up at the chateau, once again in control.

"Then," he said with resigned determination on his handsome face. "I will wait."

It had all been so simple once. She had been a singer in Paris, whose talent was honed by her gifted Maestro. Weekly lessons ensued, but never once did she see his face or any part of him for that matter. A Vicomte's interest soon excited schoolgirl fantasies of chivalrous knights on powerful white steeds. Erik's passionate jealousy brought him forth. Raoul's arrogant possessiveness warned him away – and in the middle of the violent contest for her heart, was a girl, innocent and untouched by love. Or so she'd thought.

One night, one kiss taught her otherwise. Taught her, too, that life was unfair and contained no expected happy endings. In the span of twelve hours, she aged one decade. An aria and a fire had stolen her naiveté. A masked Phantom had stolen her innocence - not in deed but in her soul, and that was twice as devastating. To yearn for that which she'd only had the briefest taste was a new kind of hell. Had she given herself to him, freely and without reserve, as he had wanted, perhaps this burning ache he ignited would no longer persist at the worst of times, when she thought only of him while alone in her bed. No other man had set such a fire within her, and she feared no other man ever could.

 **x**

Upon entering the Chateau Martinique, Raoul's cousin Vincent apologized for his sister's absence, making the excuse that she was lying abed with a headache. Christine had cause to doubt his words after her welcome reception six nights ago. Her host and hostess had been polite, distantly so, the frost of disapproval that chilled each word to the former darling diva apparently obvious only to her. Raoul seemed to think his family would open their arms wide in time, but she knew they would prefer to kick her thespian derriere out the door and down the castle steps.

Weary of it all, Christine expressed her desire to pen a letter to Meg, and the men politely quit her company and went off to whatever exclusive entertainments they indulged in.

Once in her chamber room, she moved pen over paper but felt restless, blocking words that sought to flood her mind while unable to concentrate on writing the mundane. She had spent the past five days exploring this wing of the castle, each mounted weapon, each book and tapestry, and had no desire to wander its drafty halls again. Had no desire to haunt any of the one hundred and twenty eight chambers that composed the gloomy castle, no desire to speak to anyone.

Staring out the window of her turret room, she again felt the burning need for fresh air and no walls and pulled the bell for the maid.

"I should like to take my meal in my room tonight," she instructed once the girl arrived. "Please tell the Vicomte I'm indisposed and will speak with him in the morning."

"Of course, milady."

"No. Not milady. Just Christine."

The maid gave her an odd look when Christine reached for her cloak, and she explained, "It's so lovely out, I thought I might take a walk to clear my head."

"Not alone, surely?"

"I'll stay close to the castle." She fastened the frog clasp beneath her throat. "And I shall be back in time for supper."

The girl looked undecided. "Beware of the Fae, miss. it's the time of the solstice, you know."

"The Fae…? Oh, you mean the faeries." Christine smiled at such simple charm. She had shared similar stories with Meg when they were children. This girl still looked like a child herself, with plump rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Young enough to be influenced by otherworldly tales. "But why should one beware? I thought they were supposed to be sweet and gentle creatures, lovely and elegant."

"Lovely they are, miss, but wicked as sin. They love to create mischief and grief for all mankind."

"Well then, I shall be sure to steer clear of them."

Minutes later on the path leading away from the manicured gardens, (she distinctly heard the murmur of voices within the flowery bower and avoided continuing in that direction), the sad smile at the little maid's whimsy slowly died on her lips.

She, too, once believed in fairy tales, one in particular about an Angel of Music.

Her childhood had been filled with the fantasy brought to life, until she learned only months ago that such dreams had all been a well-fabricated myth. She had been intensely heartbroken, quietly furious and, an impish part of her whispered to taunt her, blessedly relieved to learn her Angel was only a man…

Erik - why?

 _Christine…why?_

He had asked a similar question that terrible night.

So many questions seeking answers stirred within her heart. Questions that could now never be answered. That she could never answer for him. And yet, she refused to believe what must be true. He could not be dead. It must be some mistake, a vagrant who wandered in, hoping to find shelter…

 _Below the opera house, inside watery passages no one knew but him?_

"Why do you cry, mademoiselle?"

The soft tinkle of a child's voice startled Christine from what had become a frequent venture into her past -

Strip it away and seal it up? Never!

A slender girl, no more than ten, sat on a grassy patch shaded by the low-hanging branches of tall trees. Eyes of icy blue regarded her curiously from a delicate face. A wreath of pink flowers had been woven into her silvery-fair hair, and she wore a dress to match. Like as not from yesterday's festival that Christine had invented a headache not to attend, and the child belonged to one of the villagers.

"I'm not crying." Surreptitiously Christine brushed the moisture from her lashes. "What are you doing out here alone?"

"Oh, I'm used to being alone." The girl gave her a gamin grin. "You walk as if you seek something. Are you lost?"

That question bore more credence than Christine was willing to give it.

"I thought to take an evening stroll."

"To the village? If so, you're walking away from it."

"Not that far. I do not plan to stray from the castle grounds."

"The castle…?" Something flickered within the child's eyes and she looked beyond Christine to the distant edifice. Christine turned, surprised to see she had wandered quite far.

"You live there?" The girl frowned.

"I'm only visiting with a friend, to see his family."

"The Marquis de Chagny."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Raoul, that is the Vicomte, my friend, is his cousin. I am Christine. Christine Daae. And you are?"

"I am called Lillith." The girl looked at her intently, as if pondering something. "I have heard that name, Christine Daae…"

Heavens. Had the disaster of that final night in Paris reached clear to the shores of Brittany?

The girl shrugged, seeming suddenly indifferent, and Christine was grateful she did not pursue her thoughts. Lillith resumed weaving a chain of flowers she held in the lap of her skirt and Christine walked away.

"If you seek a place of interest to visit," the child said after her, "You should look beyond that rise to the north. When the sun sets on the vale below, it is a sight to behold. You should not leave Brittany without having seen it, at least once."

Christine looked to where the girl pointed, noting it was within reasonable walking distance, noting also the golden ball of the sun had dropped lower to the earth.

"Perhaps, if I had a lamp to guide me back," Christine mulled over the idea, "in case it grows too dark to find my way back to the chateau. Another time."

"You can use mine." Lillith smiled brightly and produced a small lantern from behind her. It's tiny flame burned low within the glass.

Christine looked at her, taken aback. "I can't take your lantern. Won't you need it for your return home?"

"I live close and know the forest well. Go on," she urged. "You can bring it back to me on the morrow's evening. I'll be here waiting."

Such a strange child, but endearing. And Christine, not yet ready to return to the gloomy fortress of the stuffy chateau and the forced politeness of her hosts or the impatient urgings of Raoul, took the proffered lamp with quiet gratitude.

The child's laughter, like tinkling bells, followed her down the path. She heard Lillith sing a few lines of a little ditty in a foreign tongue, her voice inherently beautiful and as crystalline as her own. She looked over her shoulder in curiosity. The area now lay empty, and Christine assumed that Lillith was scampering home through the trees before darkness could set in.

An enchanting voice…and she hoped Lillith's talent did not bring her the despair that Christine had known with just such a voice.

 **x**

The distance was further than she had measured with her eyes. When finally she climbed her way to the top of the knoll, Christine was weary, but the child had been right. It was worth every step to see.

A shaft of dying sunlight broke through low-hanging clouds, a pink-golden slice hitting a swathe through the stones below. She blinked. Rows and rows of stones, standing stones, went on for as far as the eye could see, like granite soldiers that had fallen into line in the ranks of an unseen general. Too well aligned to be a traditional cemetery, these white megaliths seemed to bear no marks on them, and curious she moved down the gentle slope until she stood within their towering rows of blank faces. Most stood above her head, while others came to the level of her chest, yet all fascinated. For what purpose were these odd stones put here? What could they mean? Did they mark the place of the dead?

The scene made her think of the stone monuments in the legendary cemetery of Paris and her visits there when life confounded and she sought answers. Most recently her visit had led her there concerning her fears about Erik, about herself and Erik…

 _What do you want, Christine Daae?_

The question swept into her mind, and words she had tried so hard to block out crowded into her thoughts as she walked among the ancient pillars of stone.

What did she want? A chance to start over again! Not in a new life, but in the old.

She wanted the impossible. Erik had been reported found. Dead. No longer alive and so vibrant, his very presence commanding… Life was unjust. The very moment she'd finally come to understand what beat in the deepest chambers of her heart, all hope was seized from her.

But what if he wasn't dead? Mistakes could be made in the darkness, and it was so very dark down there...

She cursed every one of her own mistakes, wishing to go back and mend what she'd destroyed, what they'd destroyed. She remembered the distant mob, their fierce cries of vengeance to kill the monster, the bleak resignation that clouded his eyes before he gave the chilling order that had shattered her floundering resolve…

He was dead. There was no hope for it.

In the deep cloak of twilight, she dully noted a sparse trail of pale pink petals in the grass and without conscious thought of doing so, followed them into the fringes of forest. How odd. A tablet of circular stone lay upon two thicker stones, forming a table. Other stones stood around that in the semblance of a circle. Here the grass was trodden, as if many feet had recently passed over the blades, and the same petals covered the area. A place of ritual perhaps? Lifting her lantern in the green darkness, she moved closer to investigate – then tripped, feeling as if her ankle had been seized.

With a little cry she went down, the lantern falling from her hand. She heard the shatter of glass, her palm instantaneously hitting broken shards, and she winced at the fiery sting. With no source of light, she could barely see and lifted her hand to find a dark stain of blood there. Her eyes went to the grass, but she could see no reason for her clumsy fall. Certainly no pixie crouched with evil intent, and here the ground was not uneven.

WHAT DO YOU WANT, CHRISTINE DAAE?

She clapped her hands over her ears – "Stop it! Stop it!" – and could no longer hold back the words that had haunted for days, nor the tears that she had so desperately held inside. They now rained down her face.

"I want to feel alive again!" she cried out piteously to the irritating voice that seemed to resound, and not only inside her mind. "I want the chance to start over and regain all I've lost! To go back and understand and mend all I've broken. I want – _I want Erik!_ "

A sudden wind gusted around her, whipping the fallen petals to fly and twirl high above her head. The most inhuman noise grated on her eardrums, the deepest whine and bellow as if the very earth was coming undone. Frightened, she crawled swiftly to the moss-covered table of rock, thinking to burrow underneath. Foreign symbols were engraved on its surface, symbols oddly familiar...

Time seemed to stop. Eerily she felt outside of herself, aware of nothing but those symbols, drawn to them as if compelled. The brush of her hand against the engravings made a red smear on the stone and beneath her they glowed.

A bolt of lightning crashed in the periphery of trees, then another, and another, the circle of ritual flashing with an unholy blue-white light. She cried out and made herself as small as possible in the minute space beneath the table, trying not to become the sacrifice, as chunks of hail fell in torrents from the sky.

Her head felt as if it would split open from the ever increasing pressure in the air. Her heart pounded so fast she could scarcely breathe. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, clapping her hands over her ears – and felt everything tilt in a sickening dark whirl, felt it a trial to force herself to keep breathing, each breath sucked away before she could master it to inhale. Felt as if her body was being torn apart, flesh from bone…

And then Christine Daae collapsed to the icy ground and felt nothing.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: C** **urious to know what you think about this one...interested? Oh- and I'm still not sure about the title...it fits what I have in mind, but if I come up with something better, it will change, so be forewarned. Cover is also a temp until I make my own E/C manip for this story. :)  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm so glad you guys are interested! I sure am having a blast with writing it. :) And now...**

* * *

 **II**

A persistent tickle brushed her cheek and brought Christine to slow awareness. Fighting the strange lethargy that held her bound, she struggled to open her eyes…

A velvet canopy of ebony sky spangled with diamond stars rose high above, black silhouettes of treetops blotting out the twinkling lights at the edges of her vision. A soft breeze blew long blades of grass against her face, and she realized with a jolt of shock that she lay on her back, outdoors.

She groaned, both at the knowledge that night had fallen and at the fierce pounding throughout her head. A troll seemed intent to mine her skull with a pickaxe. All she had wanted was a private stroll to view a bit of Brittany while battling her demons and trying to lay her ghosts to rest…and she had been exposed to a contender for the worst storm of the century, had received a nasty bump on the head and what felt like a wicked cut on her right hand.

And what great bit of enlightenment had she achieved for her troubles?

Now more than ever, she wished for what she could never have. Forcing herself to face the truth of her feelings only made them more powerful. And – oh no! The lantern. She had broken it in her clumsy fall. How was she ever to find her way back to the chateau in the thick blanket of night? She peered hard at her hand. At least the cut did not seem too deep and no longer bled, but it covered a line from below her thumb to the middle of her palm and made closing her hand sting dreadfully.

"Oh, hell's bells and buckets of blood!" she groaned darkly the words she'd heard a stagehand swear when he hit his thumb with a hammer, and what had become her preferred vent for anger ever since. She pushed herself up to sit.

Running from her problems never did any good. She should know better by now.

A pale white glow misted the area within the circle of stones, and she looked high, beyond leafy boughs to the beacon of a full moon that slipped from beyond a gray cloud. Well, at least there was that. Hopefully it would be enough to guide her way, for she certainly couldn't sit alone in a dark forest all night.

After the fury of such a storm, Christine was surprised to find her black silk gown dry. Her second awareness came when she moved aside low-hanging branches to find the foliage dry as well. Bone dry. Only the grass was wet, as if with dew. Good heavens, how long had she been unconscious? Had there been no rain to accompany the horrid chain of lightning? She had heard of dry storms, said to be the most dangerous for they brought with them wildfires…but there _had_ been hail. And hail was a form of wet, a painful wet. She could still recall the bite of ice chunks the size of acorns that had stung her face and arms.

Raoul would be frantic with worry, and she felt a pang of remorse for the manner in which she had treated him of late. He had tried, really tried to do all he could to help her forget. But he could not achieve the impractical, and his assertive methods had eventually tested her endurance. How had she ever thought she could withstand a lifetime of blindly submitting to his pompous authority so common with those of his class? She had never been a meek little mouse ready to obey without question. A spirited child who once upon a time danced gaily to Papa's violin, she had inundated her Papa with unending questions and girlish demands. With her teacher, whom she once thought an Angel, she eventually crossed the barrier of awed doubt and ventured into eager curiosity to know him. Raoul never understood that about her, her inability to be dependent and unassuming, and she gave him little reason to think otherwise. The startling events at the opera house had worked together to frighten and confuse her, and he had been a needed bulwark. For that she would always be grateful, to have relied on his strength when she misplaced her own.

But this current situation was unfair to both of them. Perhaps, in time, things could change, but for now she had decided – she would return to Paris. She would seek out Madame Giry and dear Meg and be close to those who'd known Erik. Meg never did, but Madame was once his secret associate, probably the only one to know him well, and Christine suddenly wished to hear all that her former ballet instructor could tell her of her lost Angel, so as to grieve his loss together. She would find work, ask Madame if she could stay. She and Meg were the closest to family Christine had known since the death of her father, and she felt reasonably certain she would not be denied a home.

The resolve to take back the reins of her life challenged her spirit anew, and she was eager to return to the chateau and, Lord willing, get a good night's sleep for tomorrow's difficult undertaking. Raoul would argue and protest, as was his nature, and she would need every fiber of her strength not to yield to his demands. For once, she _would_ stand her ground. If there should be a future together for them, time would tell, but this, the shredded remnants of the life they'd been left with - this felt all wrong.

She wended her way through the long procession of standing stones. In the black of night with the moon shining full on them, they seemed ethereal, almost as if they were once living souls that had been turned to rock, and she shuddered and picked her way up the knoll, not giving them a second glance. How the darkness could play tricks with one's mind!

The remainder of the walk was more difficult. She had not remembered the path so overgrown and with so many trees, their shapes hulking black monstrosities raging against an ink dark sky splotched with puddles of ashen clouds. Strange how things looked so different by light of day.

The moon's glow was barely enough to pick out her path, and Christine walked carefully, bringing her cloak tightly about her body to bolster herself against a sudden chill wind. More than a few times, she stumbled and almost fell to her knees. When the chateau finally came into view, she heaved a weary sigh of relief…

Approaching the edifice of brown stone, however, she had the oddest feeling of something not being quite right, as if it were…misplaced. Like a dance upon the stage, the entire chorus flowing in choreographed movement, save for one lone dancer the slightest bit off sync, not readily visible to the eye but disrupting flow, the overall picture distorted. So, too, did she feel when looking upon the Chateau Martinique, which at this moment looked every bit a castle.

She stared hard as she drew near and rested with her hand against the trunk of a large tree.

Since when did the Marquis use torches at either side of the great arched doors? In commemoration of the festival perhaps? Though what the token gesture should signify she could not begin to guess, and she'd been treated to a thorough account of the local lore during her week in Brittany.

A rustle stirred the bushes. She looked behind her but saw nothing. Nervously thinking of the wild animals that stalked the forest in the night and which she had thus far been fortunate to avoid crossing paths with, she hastened her steps toward the safety of the chateau…

From out of nowhere, a large hand clapped over her mouth.

Stunned, she did nothing until her shoulder blades crashed against a man's stout, solid chest. And though it did no good, Christine screamed and screamed for all she was worth against that foul-smelling hand of earth and blood, her attempts coming out muffled and useless.

"Be still, lass, or you'll regret it," a voice more desperate than sinister whispered against her ear. "I've no wish to harm you."

Christine was tall for a woman and sensed he stood only an inch or so taller. Sensed also that his build was brawny and muscular, her struggles against him soon proving her deficient in strength to escape his clutches. So she did all she knew to do. Opening her mouth wide, she bit his thick finger.

"Merde!" he hissed. "Think, Bertram, you could be lending a hand?"

A second pair of strong hands latched onto her arm. Christine butted her head back against his jaw and felt a perverse satisfaction to hear a crack and groan. Kicking her legs and the hard soles of her shoes against her attackers, she twisted away, trying desperately to scream for help or beg for mercy. Fearing at any moment her virtue would be seized and her life's blood would then follow, she increased her wild struggles.

"I did warn you," the voice hissed seconds before a pain exploded through her head and all went black.

 **x**

"Christ, Eustace, did you have to hit her so hard?"

"The wench is a hellion. She knew we were there and would have sounded the alarm. Then where would we have been?"

"Aye. So, what do we do with her? Leave her tied to that tree to be found come the morn?"

"I think not. He'll be wanting to see her, that's for certain."

"Take her back with us, you mean?" The younger man sounded incredulous.

"She was at the chateau for a reason. He'll be wantin' to know the reason…"

For the second time that night, Christine slowly came to consciousness, this time while hearing two men converse in low, rumbling discourse. She took note of her situation – sitting in the dirt with both hands tied behind her to a tree – and she peered at her captors who sat a short distance away beside a small campfire. One of the men, the eldest, held a stick with what appeared to be a hare impaled over the flames. His appearance like that of the younger man was scruffy, ruddy hair brushing past his shoulders, while the younger had dark locks that curled at the ends, just hitting the bottom of his ears. Both sported facial hair, ragged and thick. Their apparel, from their leather jerkins to colored hose was odd, like something she'd seen in the wardrobe department at the opera house.

The older man looked at her, stood and approached. She closed her eyes but knew he'd seen her watching.

"So, you're awake at last. What be your name, woman?" he asked in a tone that brooked no refusal. She couldn't place his strange way of speech, but it was like no other Frenchman she'd ever heard.

She bit her lip, thought about not answering, then posed a question of her own. "Why have you taken me? Will you let me go?"

"That's not for me to say, but you'll be telling me why you were at the chateau."

She pressed her lips together stubbornly while trying to work her hands free from the rope. The rough fibers drew tight against her skin, cutting into delicate flesh.

"Once you answer my questions, I'll share with you our supper," he coaxed.

She glared up at him through a mist of tears. "Will you untie me?"

"So you can go off scampering like a wild hare in the forest once my back is turned? Nay!" He rumbled out a laugh. "But you will answer my questions or you will starve."

She thought about the wild hare now skinned and impaled and shivered at the thought of such a fate. The savory scent of roasted meat beckoned to her traitorous stomach. She had not eaten since luncheon, and only a light repast of fruit and sweetbreads. The ache in her head had intensified since he'd knocked her out cold, and she hoped that food might ease at least one part of her abused body.

"I am Christine Daae. I am a guest at the Chateau Martinique."

The two men shared a weighty look Christine wished to understand. The older man nodded to the younger, who cut a slice of meat off the stick with his dagger and impaled it on another pointed stick the older man brought to her.

"And my hands?" she asked, helplessly looking at the food. "I can hardly eat like this." She hoped he had no intention of feeding her! She would as soon eat clods of dirt than take a morsel of food from his fingers.

He narrowly studied her, then moved to untie the ropes.

"I am watching you, Christine Daae."

And watch her, he did. Never taking his eyes off her. Not once. Not even for a moment.

Somehow, she managed to choke down the stringy meat without strangling on it, and afterward cleared her throat.

"I need to…that is…" She felt her face go crimson. "I must tend to the course of nature."

He waved to the darkness of the nearby trees. "As you will."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of conducting her business there but did not possess the luxury of choice.

"That's far enough," he said when she'd gone but ten paces. "And if you don't want me to come check that you've not fled, you had best keep rustling those bushes so I know you're in there."

"You're a heartless cur," she seethed beneath her breath to cover her angry embarrassment. "The devil incarnate."

The devilish cur had good ears, and she heard his gruff answering laugh. "I've been called a far sight worse by many more daunting than you."

 _Mabye so_ , Christine thought tartly, _but you've never stood toe to toe with the Phantom of the Opera – and won_. The snide thought brought instant heartache, and she sought to bury the recent memory away with all the other painful recollections she must somehow forget.

Upon her return, they resumed their journey through the cold, black forest. She was surprised that these hooligans did not wait for sunrise, so as to travel a path that could be seen. Clearly they wished to hasten to their main camp and join their villainous friends. Nor did they have horses, and Christine was soon beyond weary, trudging between the men, her hands again bound with rope and hanging down in front of her. Ten years in the ballet made her legs strong, but there was a limit to all physical endurance.

She had no idea of the time of night, how far they traveled, how far they had yet to go. In the darkness, amid the shrouded silhouettes of trees, with the occasional moonbeam cutting across the area, she could see little of anything at all. Though the older man ahead cleared the path from the sound of his occasional thrashing, several times she stumbled on uneven ground, and twice fell. The man behind always quickly helped her to feet, almost solicitously she thought with ironic disbelief.

What seemed an eternity later, they suddenly left the dense trees and walked into a rough camp. Tents stood scattered through the area, and two men, as oddly dressed and rough looking as her captors sat near a low fire.

The men exchanged greetings, the pair near the fire never taking curious eyes off her.

"Is he about?" the red-haired man known as Eustace asked.

"Oh, aye…" one of them waved a hand toward the trees. "In one of his black moods. You'd best wait 'til morn."

This did not please her captor, who winced and stroked his beard in thought. "Well, there's nothing for it." He looked at Christine. "Come along."

Too weary to argue or even ask where he was taking her, she slogged along behind him toward a tent set apart from the others. He motioned her inside and remained standing at the flap.

"Stay," he said sharply, as if she were a disobedient puppy. "Should you think about running, there are wolves and boars about who would find you a fair tasty morsel."

Christine needed no wicked persuasion or threats, wishing only to lie down, close her eyes, and sleep for a week. A pallet of soft looking pelts sat in one corner, tempting her sore, throbbing body, but she resisted, not wanting to be caught resting in the bed when its owner returned. No lamps or candles stood in sight. But in the midst of the tent, a wreath of small round stones guarded a scooped out bit of earth that held twigs burning in a low fire. The mean flames gave off scarce light and scant warmth, but she held her hands toward them, grateful for what warmth she could get.

Determined to remain awake and not be caught asleep and vulnerable, she sat and stared hard at the flames, digging her nails into her cut when she felt herself nodding off. The cruel sting instantly brought her around. How long she waited, she had no idea. Long enough to rue her decision to visit the stones for the hundredth time, and relive the memory of all that brought her to Brittany, including, in detail, those last months in the Opera House – when finally she heard the low murmur of men's voices directly outside the tent. Straightening her spine, she shook her head briskly to achieve better wakefulness and braced herself for the confrontation with the vagabond leader…

The canvas flap parted. She lifted anxious eyes, the fire's sultry glow outlining the new arrival in charge of her fate. Nervously she took in the black leather boots that rose over the knees, cuffed at their tops, and above that, the hose of blood red that fit lean, muscled thighs like a second skin. Heat flushing her face, she stared several seconds more, gathering the courage to look higher, taking in a doublet of black leather with lacings crisscrossed over a white linen shirt with full sleeves, and a thin leather belt circling a trim waist that held a scabbard with a sword hanging down one side. She swallowed hard as her eyes lifted up, up, past a broad chest and its sinful peek of glistening skin lightly dusted with damp hair, where the shirt lay casually parted – and to his face –

At which point, the breath slammed out of her body.

At which point, she lost the power of speech.

A black mask covered two-thirds of the man's features, and from out of its twin holes stared sardonic eyes of blue-grey…

Erik's eyes.

Erik's twisted smile.

Erik's coal black hair.

 _Erik…?_

Christine blinked hard, harder still, then did what any self-respecting captive would do who'd found herself thrust in such a position – twice slammed in the head and knocked insensible, forced to walk to utter exhaustion, only to be confronted with the absurdly impossible –

She slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

 **xXx**

 **A/N: Erik...Is it or isn't it? hmmm...**

 **;-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I love reading what you guys think might happen, but please remember – this is** **inspired** **by my favorite time travel books – (Outlander series and K.M. Moning's Highlander books) – but does NOT follow those stories and is not set in Scotland. So please don't look for total matches, though there will be some similarities here and there. But I'm doing my own thing too. ;-) Also, just like with Come to Me, things aren't always as they seem … and now…**

* * *

 **III**

" _Damoiselle_ …"

A large, warm hand slid beneath her neck, lifting her head, and Christine moaned with the pain thrumming through her skull.

"Drink this. It will help you."

Pulled from the thick murky blackness not by the thought of whatever elixir was offered to dull her anguish but by the deep, familiar, achingly seductive voice that set wings to her soul, Christine opened disbelieving eyes to behold the impossible.

Not dead. Not dead _._

 _He was not dead…_

Erik crouched before her, wearing what looked like something that belonged to the wardrobe department of the theater. Absent of any true coherent thought in the wake of her shock she blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"Why are you wearing those clothes?"

He cocked his head in that oh-so-familiar manner that mocked, his lips twisting into that oh-so-familiar wry grin that caused her heart to skip a beat, his mesmeric eyes sparkling with life _..._

 _Not dead...he was not dead..._

"You would prefer me without my garments?" His gaze dipped lower, to her generously exposed décolletage then lifted again to her eyes. "And will you go without the constraint of yours as well?" His probing look enflamed her.

"What…? No!"

At the bent of his familiar words, not growled in anger this time in ordering the removal of her costume, but still agitating her with the light mockery of his tone, Christine struggled to sit up, feeling the burn in her cheeks. The mantra of elation in her mind over his startling resurrection dwindled to give way to embarrassed confusion.

Gracefully he stood to his feet and stepped back to give her room. To cover the awkward moment, she grabbed the leather flask he held out, only just noticing he had untied her wrists, and with shaking hands she upended the contents into her mouth.

Fire scorched her throat, burning a hole down to her stomach. Hastily she pulled the container away, coughing and gasping at the vile brew.

"One not familiar with spirits," he said casually, "should not drink with such haste."

She squeezed the alcohol induced tears from her eyes. The stuff was quite horrid, but she appreciated the immediate ease of warmth that settled through her blood, also alleviating the ache in her skull. The libation gave her a measure of calm and the wherewithal to speak.

"Why are you here?" she asked barely above a whisper, as if to speak more loudly might somehow make him disappear.

She still could not fully believe Erik was standing little more than an arm's length away. He towered above her, and she struggled to her feet with the need to be on more equal footing, to see better into his eyes, though even standing, he topped her by at least five inches.

"For what purpose did you come to this forest?" she insisted. "To Brittany. Did you follow me? Did you know I was here?"

.

 **xXx**

.

The masked leader of renegades stood, curiously eyeing the slender woman who had sprawled so gracefully at his feet and now faced him as regal as a queen, tall for a woman, elegant…and bitterly angry.

By God, she was a beauty! That was clear to see even with the dirt that smudged her cheek and brow. She had flawless skin of purest cream, and lush red lips made to be thoroughly plundered. Eyes of rich dark velvet, impossibly huge eyes, flashed and studied him with cross expectancy. An unruly mass of thick dark ringlets rolled to her waist, and for a forbidden moment he imagined how they might feel trickling across his bare chest. Slender in stature, she was a woodland goddess. Her breasts were high and well rounded, the top moons shamelessly exposed and inviting his gaze, though he was temporarily bemused by her peculiar dress and the odd manner in which her skirt billowed out beneath an impossibly tiny waist. She spoke as if she knew him, and he searched his mind in months past for just such an encounter, for surely he would not have forgotten a maiden so memorable.

"I shall ask the questions," he said in sober regard, reminded of duty first. "Why were you skulking on the grounds of the Chateau Martinique? What business have you there?"

"I was not skulking," she said somewhat petulantly. "I'm a guest there."

His eyes narrowed. "Of de Chagny's?" He looked again at her odd bell-shaped dress composed of expensive cloth and brocade. "You are his intended then?" he clipped out the question as more of a statement, the idea strangely unsettling.

He had heard, as had all who dwelt in the village, that the faithless noble made plans to marry another from a foreign land, his bartered bride expected to arrive any day.

She squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. "I haven't given him my consent yet. Actually," she took a deep breath, clasping her hands demurely in her skirts as if thinking better of her response, and rectified her words. "I told him I cannot marry him."

He crossed his arms and regarded her distantly. "A maiden of such fortitude is a rare find. You are not the least bit tempted by his coffers of great wealth?"

She brew her dark winged brows together. "Erik, why must you say such things to me?" Her voice was hurt. "Must we engage in this same tired dance, again and again? I showed you how I felt. I made my choice when you asked it of me, that night…"

Hearing the name she spoke gave him pause, but he did not respond.

"I would have gone with you, would have married you. You _told_ me to leave with Raoul. I only did what _you_ ordered me to do, though I have yet to understand why…."

He eyed her intently as if he could probe into the inner chambers of her heart and find access to the secrets that lay hidden there. Her gaze slid miserably to the ground.

"Had I experienced such a stroke of good fortune that you should desire to lie willing beneath me, damoiselle," he said softly, "I would never have turned you over to another man."

His surprising words brought another flush of becoming rose to her cheeks. Her eyes snapped up to his. "What are you saying?"

"Simply this. You are mistaken. We have never met."

She stared at him, blinking madly, her mouth agape.

"Is this some cruel joke?" she asked hoarsely. "Some other masquerade? Will you now pretend not to know me, after all the years we shared - after all we've _been!_ What of our music and the opera?"

He looked at her oddly. "The opera?"

"Oh!" she fumed in clear offense, then did something that greatly surprised him – of itself a difficult feat to accomplish.

Closing the short distance in a rush, the woodland goddess lifted her hands to his jaw and pressed her lips heavily to his. Soft lips… Full. Warm and inviting, as were the generous curves she pressed flush to his body.

Desire flashed through his blood like heat lightning, his every nerve instantly charged with fiery lust for the bewitching creature he drew closer with one arm. He seized control of the kiss, his palm against her cheek, his fingers delving into her thick curls. His tongue plunged hot into her parted mouth, taking every bit of sweetness she possessed, and she groaned and pressed herself closer, wrapping slim arms about his neck, running her palms along the back of his shoulders.

He had done his fair share of wenching, but never had a kiss affected him so strongly. Confused that it should, he drew back, ending with a tender nibble to her lower lip, unable to prevent one last taste of her allure.

She opened dazed eyes, expectant and shy. Virginal eyes, and it shook him after such a bold display that she might be an innocent.

"You are most desirable," he said thickly, "A man would have to be a simpleton to resist your charms. Gladly I will lie with you, _belle jeune fille,_ though it does not change what is true – I do not know you."

Her jubilant smile faded bit by bit with each statement aired. She looked deeply into his eyes then stepped a little closer and lifted her face to see him more clearly. He remained motionless, without expression, and stared back. Abruptly she let out a soft little gasp, her features stricken.

"My God…you really _don't_ know me…"

He inclined his head to acknowledge her horrified words. Her hands lifted to cover her cheeks, and she slightly swayed. He grasped her tiny waist to keep her from again falling over and narrowly missing the fire pit.

"You must rest, you are weary," he said. She took a sudden step in retreat, breaking his hold, her eyes now guarded. "We will talk more on the morrow." He wanted additional answers but they could wait.

She stared at him then glanced toward the pile of furs in the corner of the tent.

"Where will you sleep?" She nervously cleared her throat. "That is, if you intend for me to stay in this tent, which I assume to be yours?"

He raised his brow at her tight query, but did not remind her that only moments ago she had eagerly offered her body up for his pleasure. She may now play the shy maiden, but soon, he vowed, he would know every silken inch of that pleasure.

"I have matters to attend. You may have the bed to yourself…" He motioned toward the pelts. "For tonight."

Sweeping her in another head to toe glance, lingering over sumptuous curves and the memory of how they felt crushed against his body, he nodded once in parting and left the tent.

.

 **xXx**

.

Christine woke some time after dawn, her body better rested, her head sore but no longer hammering out a repetitive crescendo. Bruises she had acquired through the night were more irksome than painful, accustomed to such, when learning difficult dance programmes. The cut on her hand had formed a scab and looked no worse, so at least was on the mend.

What sleep Christine obtained was filled with dreams of events she would rather left forgotten. In wakefulness, Paris lay more than a half day's journey behind her, but in dreams it dogged her every step. She was no longer sure where her destiny lie. Would she find the needed answers in the city that had become her home? Or were they to be found elsewhere, in this camp of brigands?

Her silk dress was a hopeless ruin, the black she'd worn for mourning, a dark, drab color that need no longer apply. One sleeve was coming away from the bodice and the hem bore a jagged tear. She wished she possessed the skills to mend. Mend the gown and so much more…

Long minutes after he had left her, once she awkwardly managed to loosen the stays of her corset and slip out of the stiff garment of boning needed to give the skirts of her gown the degree of formality the de Chagnys expected, at least reclining had been a comfort. It was his male scent on the silky pelts that drove her to distraction and stirred restless slumber. Of candle smoke and earthen forest and spicy musk. A scent familiar and new and never forgotten…

Better able to think with the dawning of a new day, she revisited the memory of their last meeting and played over the puzzle of his words. She entertained no doubt that this rebel leader was Erik, could be no one else. She had seen him a week ago, for pity's sake. His features had not changed, not one iota. Even his mask was a replica of the one he'd worn in the Don Juan.

So overjoyed to see him after endless days of sorrow, after thinking him _dead_ , followed by the angry confusion to hear him deny even knowing her, she had acted on impulse and catapulted herself into his arms, determined to make him admit he'd not forgotten her. And in his kiss that had surely scorched her soul, she felt a tremor of that wild hope. Yet no recognition had flashed in his eyes, though she'd seen and felt his desire burn through her when he looked at and kissed her. There had been a keen interest in her as a woman he wished to bed, but no hint of the adoration she'd come to know as the woman he once said he loved.

She did not want to believe it, God, how could such a thing even be possible? But it must be – _he truly did not know her!_

It occurred to her that he could just be a consummate actor playing a role as cleverly as he played her Angel for ten years, but intuition told her that wasn't the case. Being in his presence had felt so intensely familiar…and yet there was a marked difference. He displayed his usual debonair grace of seduction, so much a part of him, but there was a sense of self-assuredness and control that had been missing from the Phantom of the Opera. Not enough of a disparity to make her reject the idea of his being Erik, but it did give her cause to wonder.

But if this was Erik, (as it _must_ be), how could he not know her? Had his memories been stifled somehow, the night of the great fire perhaps? The elderly were wont to forget, though he was decades away from being old. A sickness of the mind? Yet those were often related to madness, weren't they? He seemed sane enough – asking logical questions, stringing articulate sentences together…It made no sense. Or, and this thought bore great reflection – did he have a twin identical to him in every attribute? He once cried out to her of his mother's rejection but never mentioned other family. That did not mean they didn't exist, and it would certainly explain this strange sense of knowing him while still seeing him as a stranger.

In the long and short of it, she could comprehend three possibilities. One, that he again deceived her and played an outstanding pretense, cruel and complete with a host of men to aid him and gain whatever retribution he felt he was owed. Two, he truly had somehow lost all knowledge of who she'd been, as well as his own identity. Or, three, he had an identical twin brother who haunted the forest of Brittany at the same time Erik had haunted the Paris opera house.

She would watch him closely, speak of things that could stir his memory. And if he gave the slightest indication of awareness, she would know…

When he entered the tent that morning, Christine was ready for him. Still shaken from the night's ordeal of events, but resolved in her purpose she stood and faced him across the expanse, the whole of which was half the size of her former dressing room.

"Since I am to be your guest for a time," she said quietly. "Might I know your name?"

He set a wooden bowl of berries on the ground, bending to a crouch as he did, then turned his head and regarded her without rising. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she swiftly brought her attention up from his red-clothed derriere.

He smirked as if he knew exactly where her focus had been. She bristled at the mockery.

"I am known throughout these lands as Le Masque."

Le Masque. She snorted in soft contempt. How many times had she impulsively rid him of his mask that seemed always to close her out? Once out of besotted curiosity, and she was sorry for that. Once out of fear-induced survival, for which she knew no remorse, except for the hurt it caused when he erroneously thought that one desperate act a betrayal. Hells bells – the gendarmes would have shot him dead on the bridge, right there in the midst of the entire wretched performance – Raoul had been so determined to have him killed – had she not intervened and forced Erik to flee.

"Have you no other name?" she asked, displeased with his answer.

"I do not." He, too, seemed perturbed. "And what is wrong with Le Masque? It is the name my men gave me when I joined them." He waved a hand to his face. "You cannot say it is inappropriate."

She could say many things, but chose not to.

"Well, I don't like it. It's not really a name at all. Never mind. I shall give you a more fitting name by which I shall call you." She paused, watching him closely. "I think…Erik is who you shall be."

He narrowed his eyes. "The name you spoke last night? I think not. I have no wish for you to look at me and call me by another man's name. I have no wish to share you with this Erik…"

He rose in one lithe, graceful movement and prowled slowly closer, reminding her of a sleek, calculating wolf. Silvery blue eyes regarded her with avaricious intent.

Her heart beating fast at his words, Christine backed up nervously. "Would you prefer Opera Ghost?"

At her dry words, he tilted his head in curiosity, his pursuit relentless. "What exactly is an Opera Ghost?"

"Never mind. It would take too long to explain – stop right there." She put her hand out, surprised when he did. "Alright then. I believe I have a name we can both agree on. I shall call you…Phantom."

She watched closely but the rapt gleam that entered his eyes showed no sign of remembrance, only discovery.

"Phantom." He looked her up and down. "A name for one of stealth, with the ability to blend into the night and remain undetected, to roam unseen and untouched in his agenda. A name that many would respect and many more would fear…"

Her heart clutched at his words, words Erik would say.

"An odd name, but I will allow it."

Needing the familiar by which to address him, she nodded in relief.

"Alright, Phantom," she tested the form of address on her tongue. It did not glide as smoothly as Angel, Maestro, or even Erik, but at least it was a name he once claimed as his own. "What exactly should I expect from this, um, arrangement? Do you intend to hold me hostage?"

"And what shall I call you, _belle jeune fille_?" he asked, ignoring her questions.

She inhaled deeply at his choice of words: Fair Maiden. The second time he had called her that. Meeting as strangers, the proper form of address to give him to use would be Mademoiselle Daae. But she longed to hear her name on his lips again and softly uttered the familiar.

"Christine," he repeated after her, drawing out the syllables in the gentle, melodic purr that always sent warm shivers tingling down her spine. " _Christine_ …" he said more softly. "It suits you."

She willed her legs to remain solid and standing. He towered over her, close and alluring, his lean, muscular form pronounced by the fitted costume he wore. Wide shoulders and chest tapered into slim hips and long muscled thighs, and when earlier he had bent to his task, she'd caught the curved perfection of his tight backside devilishly outlined by the red hose. Oh to be sure, the long frock coat and heavy cloak had hidden much. She had seen him in his shirtsleeves and form-fitting trousers that final night at the opera, but the attraction she'd felt had been buried deep beneath the fear and horror of all that swiftly transpired…

There was no fear now. No horror. Perhaps there should be. Was she not a captive?

"You didn't answer me," she insisted. "What is it you plan to do with me, Phantom? Do you intend to hold me for ransom?"

She caught and held her breath when he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek to chin with the back of his knuckles, so reminiscent of Erik it nearly brought her to tears. She worked to hold them at bay.

"You will not be returning to the Chateau Martinique, not this evening, not on the morrow, not on the next. You will not be returning at all."

Stunned, she could think of no response. She certainly had no desire to go back there and felt it frivolous to state otherwise, but his words seemed to hold a deeper meaning she was afraid to work too hard to unravel.

His fingertips ghosted down the other side of her face in a reflection of his first stroke. She struggled to remain focused.

"Might I send a letter, to let them know I've come to no harm?"

She certainly did not want Raoul to worry, or worse, send out hunting parties to scour the forest for her – and find Erik.

He snatched his hand from her jaw, his eyes giving off a sudden icy chill.

"To warn the de Chagny scum, so that he will send his men in a pathetic attempt to entrap me? Not likely…"

She stared at him and felt so maddeningly and painfully confused. Apparently, whether cognizant of his identity or not, his feud with Raoul remained intact. It was only with her that all bonds of remembrance had been severed. Was hatred for his nemesis stronger than his love for her, that he would know the Victome but completely forget her existence? The idea hurt. Hurt dreadfully, like a shard of glass cutting into skin.

"I wish to go back to Paris," she said, airing her earlier plan hatched once she left the stones.

He studied her a long moment. She did not once flinch.

"Have you kith or kin in residence there?"

Kith or kin? Puzzled by his question, she shook her head.

"I have friends living there who are like family." She lifted her chin and glared. "But if you think to seek a price for ransom from them, you will be sorely disappointed. Madame Giry and Meg worked at the Opera House until, well, until they could no longer work there. They have no money to part with."

He looked at her curiously as though fascinated and shook his head.

"I have no intention of demanding ransom from anyone, kith nor kin nor favored enemy." He chuckled, as if at a private joke, though a harshness glittered in his eyes. "I will think on your words, Christine Daae. Until that time, it would be wise to remain in the tent. You will be safer here."

Without so much as a fare thee well, he turned and left.

Shaken and finally allowing herself to show it with his absence, Christine moved to the opening of the tent on legs that no longer wished to support her. Lifting the tent flap, she watched him stride across the forest floor, his stride sure, his carriage tall and lithe. He was the same man she'd known, and yet…so different.

He had not rejected her request upon hearing it, and that buoyed her spirits. She dearly hoped Madame Giry could shed light on this bizarre set of circumstances, or, at the very least, help her get Erik back from wherever his mind had departed.

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) And so, let the games begin…**

* * *

 **IV**

The man who called himself Le Masque strode with confidence through the camp, seeing to minor issues and learning the whole of what had transpired from his aide, Eustace, including information collected on the scum, de Chagny. Arrogant bastard, thought he could flaunt his privilege and reap no justice for his wrongdoings? How pathetically ignorant of the reprehensible noble. If it was up to Le Masque, the whole detestable lot of his family would pay the toll for their many infractions against Brittany, against the Crown, and more personally, against himself.

Eustace again spoke of spotting their captive as he had been spying on the chateau, the mention of the damsel pulling Le Masque from murderous thoughts.

"She was there, as bold as you please, walking alone at the goblin's hour and 'neath the fullness of a witch's moon. Don't forget it being the Midsummer Solstice," Eustace added deliberately. "She came from the north, from the direction of the stones, and was headed for the chateau."

Le Masque scowled at mention of the stones. The Megaliths of Carnac. Ancient standing stones that wove their history among the Celtic Druids, a place where rites of magic and divination were performed coinciding with the sacred days of the festivals. The same stones at which he'd been left as a newborn to die.

"What are you saying, man?" he studied his aide in wry disbelief. "You think the woman is a witch?"

"Stranger things have happened. I need not be tellin' you that."

Le Masque's own cloudy past was indisputable proof of the bizarre, and Eustace had accepted the whole of it, accepted the curse of his affliction, one of few who'd seen the truth and still respected him as a leader. Le Masque looked toward his tent where he'd left the girl. His eyes narrowed in pensive reflection.

The name by which she first called him and the title she later claimed for him – both had stirred a strange awareness, a distress in his soul even, to hear her speak such names. Why, he could not fathom. Perhaps because he did not like to hear another man's name on her lips. For, even more incredible, once he had entered his tent and first looked down at his beautiful captive sitting at his feet across the low fire, had watched her midnight dark eyes take in a slow account of his form then lift to his eyes – one word had suddenly, inexplicably roared inside his head:

 _MINE!_

And when she had kissed him, the matter was sealed.

She now belonged to him.

Mayhap the damsel _was_ a witch and had woven a spell of enchantment around his soul…

As for the name Phantom that she insisted on calling him, he immediately identified with the mysterious title and could even grow to favor the ghostly address over his current designation.

"The others, what do they say?" he asked.

A scurvy lot of bandits and outcasts, the majority of his band hailed from France. Three were from other lands, like Eustace, but all of them clung to old world superstitions and ideals.

"A few are wary of her. More than a few wish to tup her."

Hearing this, rage simmered to a boil inside his blood and Le Masque – who at that moment felt more like a deadly Phantom than the disguised rebel leader – snapped his attention to his aide. "No one is to touch her or go near my tent! Tell them I have commanded it so. Upon my word, he who does will answer to my blade…"

Eustace winced at his leader's ire, so quick to burn, and swallowed hard. "Ye cannot blame them, milord. They have no' seen a wench in more than a fortnight, and she's more comely than most. For her to stay here, within camp, and them be denied their pleasure...Well, not many are pleased with that either."

"I care not. It is my decision, and they will abide and obey. The damsel remains, and she will be given the respect due a lady of her breeding."

"Think you she is de Chagny's intended?" Gruffly Eustace changed the subject.

"I have no doubt of it," Le Masque said with a frown.

He did not fault the men their recreation and rarely interfered, especially with those inborn needs involving a woman, though he made clear to all his men he would not tolerate rape. His own intimate encounters with the fairer sex were obscure, as if belonging to someone else's memories and he was no more than a casual observer to them. As always, the greater part of his recollections grew vague after a prolonged period of darkness, when the fearsome dreams would take hold, and he was never the same afterward.

But if anyone was going to tup the fair Christine, it would be him alone doing the tupping, and a memory well worth keeping. Preluded by a lengthy seduction, but that went without saying. He wanted the lass willing and wet or not at all. Recalling her reaction to him upon their first meeting, he felt reasonably certain he had nothing to fear…

As long as she never looked beneath the mask.

He pulled from within his shirt a small leather pouch of coins and shoved them against Eustace's chest. "Take my horse, ride to the village and find suitable clothing for the woman. Maude will help. Take Galen with you. While there, see if there's word from our contact."

"Aye, milord, consider it done." His aide nodded once and hastened away.

Perhaps if the fiery young damsel was appropriately and modestly dressed his men would have less cause to think her a witch and be far less susceptible to tainted thoughts of tupping her. He withheld his opinion of her character, for now, but one startling fact he knew to the marrow of his bones:

He would protect Christine Daae with his very life if it came to that.

.

 **xXx**

.

It took approximately one hour before Christine felt calm enough to face whatever new horrors awaited on the other side of the tent. The berries her masked captor had brought helped to ease her hunger, but she'd been chagrined to find no source for her other immediate needs. He had advised her to stay, but surely he must realize she could not remain in his tent indefinitely.

Outside, in the light of day, she took quick note of her surroundings, now that she could see them. They were in a clearing…and they were not. Here the trees did not grow so closely together as they did throughout most of the forest she had encountered, but they were still scattered throughout, leaving patches of open space. Living in an opera house nearly her entire life, she had no idea what the types of the many trees were, only that they were diverse and towered to a leaden sky. Their graceful canopies of leaves dappled the area in shadowed green, a cover of moss lightly furring practically everything in sight. The width of some trunks were thin as poles while others were massive, larger even than the thick colonnades towering in the front of the opera house. Near one of these, directly in front of Erik's tent, a young ruffian stood, a quiver of arrows at his back, a dagger in his short boot.

Christine moved past him and toward a perimeter of dense trees. He pushed back from leaning against the tree and began to follow.

"Don't even think it," she snipped. "I require complete privacy. You don't really think I could get far and outrun you in this dress, do you?"

He dropped his dark eyes to the black bell-shaped skirt billowing out from beneath her cloak. "Did you have a bad tussle with the starch, milady?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, noting he was quite young, surely no more than fourteen. Peach fuzz lined his upper lip, his cheeks baby soft. Wondering at his ill attempt at humor – really! She knew she was a dreadful sight but did he have to twist the blade of her humiliation? – she marched away without a word.

A short time later, her mood greatly improved with her morning ritual accomplished, she found the lad still leaning against the tree where she'd left him.

"I don't suppose you have coffee?" she asked hopefully.

He looked at her oddly.

"To drink?" she prodded with a little smile.

"Oh, ye wish a drink. Aye, milady. This way." He swept out his hand with a courtly little bow.

She rolled her eyes at his boyish teasing but followed him to the area with the campfire she'd seen the previous night, now banked, and past that to a cart that held three large casks. Grabbing a wooden mug from where it had been tossed to the ground, he unstopped one of the casks and filled the mug halfway to the brim then handed it to her.

She eyed the dark golden liquid – clearly not coffee – and tried not to think where the mug had been, her thirst too great to care. She found a relatively clean surface and sipped, grimacing at the stout flavor but not denying herself a second taste. At least it wasn't the throat-scorching devil's brew Erik had in his flask.

"Mead," the boy answered her unspoken question. "Sometimes we take ale. On occasion we lift a cask of wine."

"You mean you _steal_ them?"

"Aye."

He regarded her as if hers was a foolish question, and she supposed it was. Had she not already guessed that these men were outlaws and brigands? They abducted her from the castle grounds without batting an eye, for heaven's sake. And Erik surely had taken what he wanted from the theater, to furnish his lair. Thoughts of the past made her melancholy, and she forced her mind to the present and her plan to unearth what information she could.

"How long have you known Le Masque?" she asked, managing not to grit her teeth and stumble over the name.

"Since two summers past," the boy said eagerly. "He invited me to join with him after me da died. Bertram is my brother and was already a member of the band."

"Really…and your name?"

"I am Tobias, milady."

"Call me Christine."

A flush colored his cheeks. Tobias clearly was uneasy about the idea, as if he might be breaking a cardinal rule among hooligans. He studied his boots, toeing the ground with one of them.

She did not think it wise to state that she was no noblewoman as the lad clearly thought, afraid if Erik's men knew her to be less than titled, they might treat her accordingly. She shuddered at the notion of what that might entail.

Christine furtively watched a group of six men not so surreptitiously study her from across the tree-studded clearing. In fact, boldly staring. Having spent nearly a decade performing on the stage, she was accustomed to being stared at and paid them little heed though she did feel a thread of nervousness to be ogled by half a dozen men of ill repute.

"Does Le Masque ever spend days away from the camp, say for a week or more at a time?" she asked casually, determined to learn the mystery surrounding Erik, knowing at least one thing for certain: he could not have been at the opera house and in this forest at the same time. "I think I might have seen him once before," she added hastily to waylay suspicion.

"Oh, aye, he has, but never alone. Leastways not much. We never travel in less than pairs. Except when the black moods hit, then he goes off alone and we're forbidden to join him."

"Does he disappear for long?"

"Sometimes."

Tobias looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he shouldn't have spoken, and she felt a little shiver crawl down her spine. Such behavior could certainly describe her Erik of the Opera's volatile moods. But she needed a smaller window of time to determine if Erik of the Forest could have been at the Don Juan performance.

"A week ago…" It had been that many days since the disaster in Paris, though it felt like centuries. "…Was he off alone, during one of his moods?"

"I cannot say, milady."

"Oh, but it's alright. I won't tell –"

"I must be getting back to my duties."

She sighed. From all appearances, guarding her _had_ _been_ his duty. Yet she could tell from his suddenly closed expression and wary eyes she would get no more from him. At least she'd gotten that much, to learn of this Erik's dour moods and need for solitude, a mirror to the behavior he had exhibited at the opera house.

"One more thing I require – please. Is there anywhere I might find some water to wash with?"

He cocked a curious brow, as if to ask why she would even bother. Taking note of his dirt-smudged face, fingernails no better, and greasy lanks of hair, she felt sure the boy rarely had a rendezvous with soap and water.

"There is a lake over that rise, but I cannot be taking you there."

She knew it would be futile to set out on her own, as heavily as she was guarded. She doubted she could convince him she would not run, especially if he had talked to her two captors and learned of the fight she'd put up to flee from them. Of course, those were all in the hours Before Erik, but she could say nothing without raising a host of questions and increasing suspicion with regard to why she would so suddenly change her mind and wish to remain in a camp of hooligans and bandits. They might think her no more than a weak hostage, but she felt oddly in control since it was _her choice_ to be there.

Finally, she was given a choice no one could take from her. Even if it was disguised within the folds of captivity.

Her skin felt gritty beneath the dress – what she wouldn't give for a tub into which she could immerse her aching limbs, or even a pitcher of cool water, a bar of soap, and a cloth would do nicely! He must have read the reason for her miserable little sigh, for a look of unexpected empathy came into his brown eyes.

"I forget wenches tend to need those sort of things. My sister was the same. Said cleanliness and godliness were next to each other or some such thing."

Christine thanked the unknown sister though she wasn't sure how she felt about being called a wench, which sounded suspiciously a lot like witch, but she forgave him everything when he gave her a brusque nod and said what she'd been hoping to hear.

"Later, milady, I will take you to the lake."

.

 **xXx**

.

Equipped with the necessities the young damsel would need, Le Masque entered his tent. He scowled to find it empty and quickly dropped the purchased items on the fur blankets then retraced his steps back through the flap.

Tobias was nowhere in sight, and he cursed the boy to realize it. The lad better have a damned good reason for not being at his post. Le Masque was not overly concerned with Christine Daae's absence. Even if she had foolishly run away, she was no match for his tracking skills.

His determination did not stem from his desire to keep her as his captive; it had become much more than that. Night had fallen and she put herself in danger by setting out alone, wild boars and wolves only two of many perils she faced. Unfamiliar with the forest, she could become lost, perish from exposure or starvation, or find her path crossed with a mortal beast with ill intent. De Chagny's soldiers certainly could not be trusted in the company of a beautiful woman.

Leaving his men to enjoy their ale, Le Masque studied where her trail led and mounted his horse. They would need to procure additional horses before the next raid, a matter too long ignored, but tonight he had only one graceful little filly in mind and led his stallion through the darkness in the direction of the mystical lake.

Almost there, he came across Tobias. Sitting near the foot of a gnarled, ancient yew tree, the boy nervously looked up at his approach then hurriedly stood to his feet. A strapping youth of three and ten, he was still innocent to the ways of a woman, more boy than man, and the only member of his band, besides Eustace, that Le Masque could trust to guard the lovely damsel. He may be only a stripling lad, but he had a wicked way with a bow and arrow.

"Milord – she wanted to come here. To bathe." His face grew ruddy. "You told me to guard her and see to her needs." Tobias shrugged, his hands uplifted. "I told her it was too late in the day and we must wait 'til the morrow, but she is of a strong mind, and I, um, feared, from what she said, that she would take off alone if I refused her."

Le Masque nodded curtly, noting the lad's nervousness in anticipation of his anger. Strangely, he felt none. With Christine Daae's ravishing feminine assets and that dazzling smile she could turn on the unwary, she would hardly need witchcraft to persuade the boy to flout his orders.

"Go." He motioned behind him with a twist of his head.

The boy scurried off, back in the direction of camp. Le Masque set his sights before him and prodded his horse to the cliff overlooking the lake, the distance between land and water two stories in height.

The moon waxed near full and glowed in an ethereal mist upon the rippling black water. Even without it, his eyes were uncommonly sharp in the darkness, a trait that served him well as a thief, and easily he caught sight of the willowy figure in the lake before him. Like a siren she stood with her back to him, her pale lily-white shoulders emerging from the water. As she worked her fingers through her masses of long wet ringlets, she quietly hummed a tune that barely reached his ears, what he heard of it enchanting.

He willed her to turn around, to bob higher out of the lake so that he might steal a glimpse more of her sylphlike form, and watched her for some time.

"'Tis not difficult to believe enchanted beings inhabit these waters when one comes across such a vision in the night…"

At his first words she spun around and brought up her hands to cover her breasts, shielding them as she slipped lower in the water, up to her chin. Heat flickered through his loins at the glimpse he'd been given.

"It is said to be the place, purported by legend, where the queen fairy Viviane gave King Arthur the sword, Excalibur. Can you not feel the magic stir the air, damoiselle…?"

It was a long moment before she called up to him. "How long have you been sitting there watching me?"

He smiled to himself, a wicked little smile, choosing not to answer.

"You're not just planning to sit there all night, I hope?" she fumed in high dudgeon.

"I have come to provide safe escort back to camp," he said offhandedly.

"What of the boy – Tobias?"

"Tobias had other duties to attend." He shifted slightly on his mount when a strained silence followed. "I would imagine the water bears quite a chill. I hope you don't intend to stay in there overly long?"

"I cannot very well leave the water with you watching, Monsieur Phantom!" A fiery little outburst, a pause and then a plaintive, "Would you please turn around so that I may?"

He was greatly tempted to ignore her plea, to see what she would do, but at last yielded to her surprising coyness and dismounted from his horse. Turning his back to her, he secured the reins over some nearby bushes.

"Oh no!"

At her horrified cry, he whipped around, instantly on the alert to see what malady had befallen her, his intent gaze scouring the dark waters for signs of a predator.

"My dress!" she pointed toward a heap of ballooning material that drifted away atop the lake waters.

He stared at the incongruous sight for a few seconds and could not prevent the bellow of laughter that flew from his lips. "It would seem the faeries are up to their nightly mischief," he mused.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh at me!" she seethed, sending him a glare the heat of which he could feel from the distance. "Oh, but what am I to do?" she wailed, looking again after the tented dress floating further away. "I laid it safely on the bushes. There is no strong wind, only a light breeze. I don't understand…"

Before he could bid her not to worry and inform her of his recent acquisition, she swiftly waded in the direction of the disappearing garment, using her arms to stroke the water at her sides for balance. Having often taken advantage of the waters to refresh and cleanse his own body, he knew the layout of the lake floor on this side of the shore and that she edged dangerously close to a deep drop-off where the current flowed strong. His jocular manner swiftly deflated on the sharp edge of concern.

"Christine – stop! It's not safe…"

Too late – he watched her body submerge as she gave a surprised little cry and splashed about. He waited tense seconds for her head to break the surface. It did – but barely. She gurgled out a wet cough, only to disappear along with her groping, outstretched hand beneath the water a second time.

Christ, she could not swim!

He sped down the cliff, tearing away cloak, doublet, and shirt as he went, watching as she broke through the surface a second time, and a third time went down with a choked cry for help. Not bothering to take the time to strip off his boots, he raced into the water and at the drop off made a shallow dive beneath the surface.

The soil stirred, swirling about, making everything too murky to see, and he swept his arms out, relying on touch to find her. His hand at last brushed a pair of smooth hips and he pulled her to him fast and hard. It was then he noticed the resistance that kept her bound to the waters – she was caught on something. A rapid search of his hand down her leg and he found a vine entangled around her ankle. Brutally he tore it from her then held her fast and kicked strongly to the surface, breaking through the water. Christine coughed and wheezed, desperately sucking air into starved lungs. Her hands clutched his back, his neck and shoulders in a panic while he struggled to find solid ground and brought them both to stand.

With the peril of a watery grave now behind them, he became acutely aware of her naked breasts pressed flush against his bare chest, her chill-hardened nipples, his hand clasping her soft, round buttocks, his other arm draped solidly around her slender back. Desire, hot and potent exploded inside his loins, and his hands clutched her more fiercely to him, grinding that soft, secret part of her against his growing need. She violently shivered and gave a feeble little whimper, burying her nose against his neck.

He struggled within himself, the temptation stark and overwhelming to tear away the flap of his hose – all that stood between him and paradise – and bury himself deep inside her. Certainly any of his men would follow through with the desire if given this position, but he held back. Just barely. Having no wish to take her when she was so vulnerable…

She trembled all over, her teeth beginning to chatter.

"Can you walk?" he asked, his voice hoarse with want.

She tried. Instantly her legs buckled, and he swept her up in his arms. Again she hid her face in his neck in embarrassment. He carried her naked to shore, like a siren caught and abducted from the black water. Locating his cloak, he set her on her feet. Assured she could stand, he plucked up the discarded woolen, swathing it around her from the back. Her head remained bowed, chin to chest, arms held there, her hands clasped at her neck as if in prayer, her hair rippling wetly to her and clinging like a shroud. She had yet to look at him or say a word. Bringing the cloak around her shoulders he pulled her carefully back into his embrace.

"Ma belle fille," he whispered, "You should not feel shame…"

She lay her head back against him as if she could not prevent doing so and shook it helplessly. His arm encircled her waist holding her more tightly to his chest, his senses alive with her.

"You are exquisite."

His palm smoothed along a fold of his cloak near her ribs to the slight curve of her stomach, hungry to touch her, to know her. The act felt strangely familiar, as if he had stood like this before, pressed close behind, and touched such feminine softness, but not with just any wench. With _her_. It made no sense. _Had_ they met in the past, the memory dissipated into the void of his beleaguered mind like all the rest?

He dipped his head, brushing his lips to the side of her neck where it met the slope of her shoulder.

She mewled out a gasp, pressing her bottom boldly against him. He shuddered with emotion, spreading heated kisses to the soft lobe of her ear, his fingers trailing lower along the cloak, gently pressing over the softness of her mound, and she whimpered.

A sudden gust of chill wind battered his drenched flesh bringing him to sanity and the knowledge of what he'd been about to do. He pulled his fingertips back from where they had just met the edge of his cloak and he fumbled back a step, lifting his hands to clasp her shoulders. Turning her around, he met the slow lift of her eyes.

"You are quite recovered?" he asked, his voice a low thread.

"My shoes," she whispered, and he looked down to see her bare toes.

Not wishing to hunt out her possessions, intending to return later and find them, once more he took her in his arms and carried her up the cliff to his waiting horse. After she was seated on his mount, he swung up behind her and headed to camp.

"The others," she said timidly. "Please…I-I don't want them to see me like this."

"I shall take a path that leads along the east side of the tent. No one can see the entrance from the campfire."

She nodded faintly but otherwise gave no reply.

With her curvaceous rear wedged tightly between his strong thighs, his lust was far from cooled, and his continued anguish was certain. Le Masque clenched his teeth for the ride back, wondering what more torments this night would hold and if he had the fortitude to bear it.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) One thing I forgot to mention for those who don't know – damoiselle is French for damsel… "Le Masque" might seem a little OOC for Erik, but there is much more to this than is apparent…Yes, it's different (nothing new there, when it comes to my bizarre tales! lol) but I hope you will like where this is going…**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :D ...And now...**

* * *

 **V**

Christine sat before Erik on his mount, her mind awhirl, her body damply chilled from without and singed by a living flame within, an echo of that warmth solid against her back where his hard body met hers.

To have struggled for each breath, fearful it would be her last and be sucked beneath the dark water, entwined and held captive as if by some vindictive water sprite using a vine as its shackle – then in the next instant to find herself so sinfully crushed against her rescuer, his body as naked as hers but for the thin hose that provided a poor barrier to all she'd felt – it had been hell followed by heaven. And stunned, she had felt him. Felt every inch. Every hard plane and muscle, felt his thickness that defined him as a man flush against her inner thigh – dear God, she had never felt so much of him before. Never felt such intense heat despite the icy water, a heat that rendered her helpless, not in a manner to avoid but to covet. She had wished to burrow into him, like a helpless kitten, drape herself around his strong body. He had touched her above his cloak, touched her in a way she'd never been touched, his lips searing flesh.

Scandalous creature that she was, in that illicit moment, she would have given herself over to anything he asked. Be it as simple as a kiss or as complicated as her virtue…

A short time later, absent from his arms, common sense prevailed as they stood facing one another inside the tent.

Christine nervously drew his cloak tightly around her nakedness, swimming in the male scent of him, her wide eyes unable to look away from the masculine sight of him. Bare-chested, his pale lean form muscled and wet, his blood red hose darkened by water and barely concealing details of the manly bulge she'd so intimately felt against her most sensitive flesh – she snapped her eyes up to his intent ones, the mask, as always, somehow still in place. His slick dark hair hung in wild strands about his neck, dripping onto his broad shoulders.

"I…um…" She struggled to find her voice. To thank him for saving her life. To point out her immediate need and his for clothes. To beg him to take her in his arms and continue what he'd begun at the lake…

Overwhelmed and uncertain, she had no idea what would have tumbled from her mouth had he waited to speak.

"You cannot swim?"

His words came rushed and angry, as if he knew the answer and merely wished to hear it from her lips. At a loss, she shook her head.

"Then why in God's name did you take a dip in the ice-cold lake in the dark of night? Do you wish for death to claim you?"

"No, of course not." His clipped question spiked her own ire. "I wished only to bathe. Before that nasty current took off with my dress, I was managing well enough."

His jaw clenched and his eyes closed briefly, as if to seek calm.

"Behind, you will find all that you need." His voice was a dark velvet rasp. "I have little knowledge of such things, but Eustace is familiar with the requirements of a woman and has assured me that everything is there. I hope it meets with your satisfaction, damoiselle. I shall return shortly."

Before Christine could respond, he moved toward the flap, exiting through it, and she gasped to see the numerous stripes of a lash spread across his back. The abused tissue was scarred white, the skin puckered. Old scars. How had he come by such evil punishment?

Instantly she remembered her fight with Raoul over the ring she'd left with Erik, and Raoul's demeaning words that the man had been raised by heathen gypsies – caged, whipped, and beaten by them, later murdered his jailer – hoping to turn her favor away from her Maestro and open her eyes to the monster, the wild, beastly "thing" Raoul called him. Instead, the unexpected plight of the child Erik brought tears to her eyes and pain to her heart…

A heart that was in danger of being ripped asunder again. She craved his touch, and tonight proved to them both how much. But she would not receive him as anything less than what he'd been – a man who once loved her and gave everything in his power to prove it, even if at times his agendas were twisted in carrying out that love. She did not wish to be his conquest, a passing fancy that once thoroughly met would soon be discarded and forgotten. That was all she was to him now, since he saw her as no more than a stranger, a maiden he desired and thought fair and wished to bed – but still, a stranger.

Sighing at her lot, Christine cast her eyes to the bed of pelts and the two layers of folded cloth. The uppermost material was a light linen, much like a long chemise, and below that, a soft woolen kirtle in moss green with a round neckline. Near this lay a long chain of silver links and a linen headpiece. Cloth shoes sat near them. Bewildered, she studied the clothing provided for her. No corset. No crinoline. Not that she would miss either restrictive undergarment, but this reminded her of a costume from an opera in which she once danced. She'd spent a great many of her years wearing costumes from former centuries, in practices and performances, so did not think much of the peculiarity. Perhaps it was all Erik could find to steal, and she remembered that he and his men also wore costumes from that same opera.

It should bother her that he was such an accomplished thief, but that was the least of her qualms. After the life he'd been dealt by others' cruel hands, she could hardly blame him for doing what he felt he must to survive.

She slipped the long chemise over her head, noting it dipped a few inches beneath her collarbone but modestly covered her bosom, exposing no cleavage, and hung almost to her ankles. But the thin ivory linen gently clung to every curve from shoulder to hip, following the fluid lines of her body, unlike her loose chemises, and a blush rose to her face at the snugness of the fit, clearly a size too small.

The sudden rustle of material behind caused her to swiftly turn and cross her hands over her breasts.

Erik entered, his shirt replaced and hanging loosely about his hips. He carried her cloak, shoes and his doublet and sword. He looked at her a long moment then turned and set her shoes down on the mossy ground, laying the remainder on a wide log that stretched almost from one tent wall to the other and acted as a bench. He then proceeded to sit on the ground to struggle with the lacings and removal of each boot, a small pool of water trickling to the ground with each one discarded.

His actions were clear. He was staying.

Christine swallowed hard as she watched his profile with wide eyes. As much as she wanted him near, _ached_ for his closeness, she did not want whatever could happen to be like this.

"Phantom," she said softly, "if I may speak?"

He stared into the fire a moment then looked over his shoulder at her.

She slid her hands from pressing against her breasts to tuck fingers into armpits and cross arms over her bosom, in a weak attempt to continue covering herself for modesty's sake, all the while trying to appear strong. She desperately pushed away the fact that he had seen and felt every inch of her skin short minutes ago.

"I was taught to guard my virtue, to give myself only to the man to whom I am bound through holy vows sanctioned by a priest. I…I thank you for saving my life, but I cannot give myself as payment or reward – and allow you to take _what by rights should belong only to my hu-husband_."

Her words came progressively more frantic when he swiftly rose after she spoke "reward", and covered the scant ground between them. His eyes glittered, his scowl dark.

"Did I ask for your virtue?" he hissed. "Did I demand it?"

She forced herself not to look away from cold eyes of silvery winter blue as they narrowed and dropped indifferently over her form then returned to her anxious eyes. The gleam there belied his disinterest.

"Lie thee down, wench. I have no stomach for rape. I seek only a bed. My own."

She backed up until her foot touched a silky pelt.

"But - where will _I_ sleep?"

"You may sleep where you stand or take your chances outside by the fire. Mayhap the one here is more amenable." He casually motioned to the fire pit behind him. "I have only the two pelts, one upon which to lie and one for cover against the cold. Make your choice."

Christine painfully caught her breath at his words – _those words_. Words that once altered the very course of her existence, and when she _had_ chosen him, her choice had been snatched from her, as if it was of no account, forcing her down another path not of her choosing.

Yet once again, what choice did she have?

In vexation she looked at the hard ground near the fire – laden with twigs and tiny stones that would make a prickly bed indeed, and she would never take the risk to lie outside, unguarded, after remembering the leers of the men. Most of them clearly did not like her or wished her for foul intent. Erik had thus far protected her. He was her safest choice, even if he wasn't the man she remembered. By his words, she felt he still must retain some ideals of a gentleman – even if he was a thief, murderer and scoundrel. She almost laughed in nervous irony at such an absurd thought. Her Erik of the Opera House had desired a wedding before making her his to own. It seemed, this Erik did not wish for a bride, but vowed not to take what was dear to her. She had to trust in that belief, even if to do so was extremely naive and foolish.

"Very well," she said with as much haughtiness as she could muster.

She took another step back and sat down, quickly seeking to bury herself beneath the top blanket of silky fur. Turning her back to him, she scooted to the tent wall until her forehead and knees touched canvas and she could go no further. Behind her she heard the unmistakable sound of clothing removed, the thick wet splat as a garment was thrown to the ground – dear God! _He was naked_. And she clenched her eyes tightly shut, desperately trying to block out the image of what that would entail. She had seen enough of his lean body and the outline of those private details to leave little to the imagination. The pelt above stirred as he settled down beside her, but true to his word, he did not cross the invisible line she had drawn to touch her.

An inexplicable surge of warmth flowed through Christine's every limb. Soon, added to that, the natural heat of his body radiated against her back and legs – even without touch, so intimate. It was a comfort and a lure, making Christine want to inch her body back and be enveloped in his warmth, be enveloped by him….

She lay as taut and still as a washboard, hardly daring to breathe as the night waned on.

 **xXx**

Secreted within the trees, Le Masque stood a little ways off from the campfire and watched the damsel, Christine, sit near the low flames and talk with young Tobias.

"The men would have me speak with you," Eustace approached. "About Marcel."

"Marcel disobeyed my orders," Le Masque said brusquely and held up his hand, signaling a quick end to the matter and his impatience to continue the conversation.

"And will you leave him to rot in de Chagny's dungeon?" Eustace asked, both incredulous and anxious.

"Nay, but neither will I give succor to the wily young upstart! You said that he did not appear to be unduly suffering. I daresay a few days confined to a cell will improve his bad temperament. I will **_not_** be crossed. He must be made an example."

"You do plan to initiate his escape, in time?"

Le Masque gave an abrupt nod. "In time. From your report, supplies are needed to make that possible."

Both men suddenly looked toward the fire upon hearing the tinkle of Christine's light laughter at something the boy said. Eustace fidgeted, clearly upset, with something on his mind.

"The men would have me speak on their behalf, my lord." Eustace cleared his throat. "Some think, since the wench is de Chagny's intended, that we could demand a fair exchange…"

"An exchange?" Le Masque's eyes narrowed.

"The girl for Marcel."

" ** _Never!_** " he roared, drawing every eye in the camp his way. "I'll hear no more on the matter." He spun on his heel, and Eustace followed him further into the thicket.

"What is she to you?" the older man asked tersely, the only man Le Masque allowed to challenge and speak to him thus. Even then, Eustace usually knew his limits. "She has shared your tent since we brought her four nights ago. You allow her to roam freely through camp and without bonds. I also thought the idea of her as hostage handed over for trade would solve our problems, but mayhap the matter has become personal…?"

"Have a care, Eustace," Le Masque growled. "Our acquaintance may cover years, but that does not give you leave to intrude in my affairs."

"Aye," the man said uneasily. "If I may ask, what plan have you for Marcel's rescue? Perhaps if I have something to tell the men…"

Le Masque considered the request and gave a twisted grin. "You have heard of the black powder?"

Eustace's smile was slow, ending in a great bellow of a laugh. "Oh, aye."

"First we must procure more horses. Tomorrow, in the second watch of the night. After that, three of us will ride to Paris to look into the matter."

"You mean to leave the wench at camp under guard?"

"No, Eustace. Mademoiselle Daae will come with you and I and whomever else I choose."

His aide gave him an uncertain look, but nodded, saying he would inform the others of the plan, then strode away.

Concealed in darkness with the shield of the thicket for a cover, Le Masque moved through the trees to find a sizeable gap that acted as a window and once more studied his lovely captive. Her face was aglow with the firelight dancing there and bringing a treasure of bronze, copper and ruby out of her dark wild curls. He frowned to see that she had omitted the headpiece to help conceal the stirring sight of her beauty.

The wench was a conundrum he wanted solved.

In the mists of what memory he could claim, he'd known few women, never longer than a night and always under cover of shadow. But when he first held Christine Daae naked in the lake, a tremor coursed through his body, as if he'd never before touched a woman intimately. The sole time he'd felt her body against him since, the feeling only intensified that she was the only one he had known. The first.

Lying next to her the past three nights had severely tested his mettle. She kept as much space between them as allowed, and he had not once breached the distance. Somehow, he'd always found a few hours of slumber and stumbled away before dawn, his mind still glazed with sleep before he could fully become aware of her presence. But last night he had awakened to find the damsel sound asleep and curled against him, every supple curve of her warmth felt through the thin undertunic she wore, her slim arm wrapped around his middle, her fingers edged beneath the long gap of his loose shirt. His loins had stirred, his flesh hardening with need. All he had wanted was to draw her closer, to bring her beneath him and press himself inside her – and at once he'd quit the bed and the tent, this time giving no considerate heed to quiet or caution, certain he _had_ wakened her with his abruptness to get away. He had stormed through the forest like a crazed barbarian, stripping off his shirt and rushing to lose himself in the chill arms of the icy lake.

Christine made him feel sensations he'd never known, yet so oddly familiar. He wanted to shield her and know her and make wild, passionate love to her – tup her 'til neither of them could move from the experience – and it frightened the hell out of him.

Not many things in life brought fear. He had known the bite of a lash, the cut of a blade, the despair of a cage – hatred and loneliness and wretchedness his bosom companions the entirety of his unnatural life. These things were common to him. But the novel emotions roiling within his breast that somehow felt ancient and an instrinsic part of him all along – and all connected to this woman – these feelings made him wish to jump on his horse at a mad gallop, far and fast, and leave the damsel behind. At the same time he knew that not to see her again might wound his soul for eternity.

It made not a breath of sense.

He could never invite _any_ woman into his life, into his secrets. None had gotten close of the few he'd known, no matter how they tried and pleaded, especially to see beneath his mask, and he soon turned his back and forgot each face. But Christine…

Ah, she was different, if only he could determine why.

He grabbed a low-hanging limb before him and gripped it hard, leaning his weight into it as he watched her bedazzle the young Tobias with her dimpled smile and a laugh like the gentle chime of distant bells.

Such madness, this. She was his captive, only until he decided what was to be done with her. A menace in his camp and a disturbance to his men with the potential to turn them against each other and wage a civil war. He had no need for Eustace's warnings to apprise him of danger – to his annoyance, he could see the lust and suspicion inscribed on every man's face.

Christine had a rare loveliness of countenance, each feature unique. Not classically beautiful when judged on its own merit – the slight tilt of the small nose, the wide full mouth, the haunted dark eyes – but the whole of it when put together composed a breathtaking masterpiece. Her form was pleasing to the eye, slender but nicely rounded, and he could well remember those bare, soft curves pressed against him, God help him. She was too damn alluring not to be under a father's watch or husband's care – for her own protection. A brute like de Chagny did not deserve such a wife; he would bruise her tenderness with his arrogance and shatter her fragility with harsh demands. Le Masque sensed in the young woman an underlying strength, and he'd experienced her spirit firsthand, but she was still an innocent. The unwanted task had fallen on him to ensure she remain that way. Daily he struggled with the attraction he felt in her presence, physical and emotional – not understanding the why of any of it, but determined to ignore what could only magnify into a problem he did not need. Once in Paris, he would relinquish the young woman over to her family and put this odd interlude behind him.

In any event, after what Christine Daae had unknowingly revealed in her slumber, he would be foolish to risk anything more.

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this…And now…**

* * *

 **VI**

Christine smoothed her hands over the gown at her hips, her gaze lowering to the hem of the soft wool brushing the cloth shoes, making certain all was in place. In this position she exited the tent – ramming directly into Erik who was about to enter. Unbalanced, she slapped her palms against his hard stomach, while his hands went to her elbows to steady her. Once she no longer wobbled, he dropped his hold and stepped back. His eyes swept her form then returned to her face.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"The gown is sufficient?" he asked with a cool reserve Christine was hard pressed to understand.

She smiled. "Oh, yes. More comfortable than anything I've ever worn."

He narrowed his eyes as if he thought she might be toying with him. She returned his gaze with frank sincerity, relieved he again spoke with her.

The previous two days he had spent patently avoiding her, and the nights he exchanged no more than terse words of polite pleasantry, inquiring as to her needs, before he turned away from her and went to sleep. The previous night he inadvertently roused her from light slumber with his clear agitation as he exited the tent, giving none of the usual care to keep his silence. All day, she feared he was angry and that she was the cause.

The chemise-like undergown and long woolen kirtle composed the entirety of her given attire. No stockings, no corset, no crinoline or additional undergarments – and Christine felt wickedly free beneath the gown, aware of her nakedness beneath with each soft brush of her bare thighs as she walked. The moss-green kirtle was short of sleeve and cut lower than the chemise, to allow the modest rounded neckline of linen to peek above, its sleeves fitted and long. Both tunics were laced up the middle with thin leather ties. Slung at her hips a girdle of silver chain links adorned the outfit and she wore cloth slippers that tied at the ankles, fitting around the foot, with soft leather soles.

"It is not the velvets and silks to which you are accustomed," he said as if by way of apology, and she cut him off with a light laugh.

"Oh, but – those costumes were never truly mine." She again smoothed her hands down the kirtle from waist to hips, and his eyes followed her motion. "I like this. It suits me well."

He looked at her long and hard, his eyes somber as if battling some inner demon, then directed his attention to the forest.

"Walk with me."

His was no invitation, the command soft, and she smiled in acceptance, just preventing herself from taking hold of his hand. How she missed the way he used to lead her as they strolled through his subterranean caverns. As much as she missed how he would sing to her as they did.

She walked beside him for some time in silence, taking note of the beauty that composed their mystical surroundings. A truly enchanting place, this forest. Green moss coated bark and soil and boulder everywhere she looked, lending a misty softness to the earth and all that stood upon it. Beyond the thick weave of branches high above, small patches of magenta and violet sky attested that the sun soon would set, and a graceful fan of luminescent beams angled nearly to the ground before them.

"It's so lovely here," Christine said and breathed deep of the fresh, earthy scent. "At the Opera House, it was a rare occasion that I went outdoors, and certainly never for strolls like this. I wasn't given much opportunity."

He pondered her words. "There are no gardens at your family estate?"

She looked at him curiously. "The Opera House wasn't my family home. Though it did become the place where I lived and worked."

He stopped walking, as did she, and turned fully toward her, regarding her in surprise.

"You were a servant? And de Changy knew of this before he arranged for your hand in wedlock?"

"Yes, he knew – but no, I wasn't a servant. I was part of the chorus."

"The chorus," he mused in puzzlement. "And what does the chorus do?"

"Why perform in the operas, of course," she said gaily with a little laugh. His questioning gaze did not waver. "You _do_ know what an opera is?" she added then looked at him in disbelief. "Mozart, Verdi, Gounad, Rossini..."

He shook his head at a clear loss, and she gaped at him, seeking to find the mockery and devilment in eyes that showed none.

"How can _you_ of all people not know what an opera is?" she breathed in profound shock.

She sensed him withdraw in offense and laid a hand to his sleeve.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I just, I don't understand…"

"It appears that both you and I live with that regret, damoiselle."

It bewildered her that he'd forgotten so much, and a horrid thought stabbed her mind. What if the lunacy that many said the Phantom possessed was valid? Her life had been most unusual since an Angel became her guardian, and certainly was peculiar in the last few days, these last two weeks – all of which could point to madness. Yet most of the time he seemed reasonably sane…

"What did you do in this opera?" He broke the confused silence at last.

"I danced on stage. Numerous times, day and night, in practice and performance. Once I sang for the audience. A solo…" She watched him carefully but he did not seem affected by her words.

"This place is one of feasting and merriment then?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Yet you were confined to its chambers. Were you held against your will?"

She found it ironically amusing that he spoke of confinement, when he had chosen to hide himself away beneath the earth for more than a decade.

"Not exactly, no. Not at all really. I could leave when I wasn't needed. I just never had reason to visit the city that often, and there weren't as many trees there as here, in this lovely forest." She watched him carefully. "I also sang. My teacher instructed me and gave me my first lesson when I was twelve – almost six years ago. He was a gifted composer, a friend and genius…"

His lips had tightened and his jaw clenched.

She held her breath. "He also wore a mask."

Blue-grey eyes narrowed. "Erik." It was not a question.

"Yes." Her response came as a mere breath.

"And you loved him? Perhaps you still do?"

He shot the unexpected queries at her like gunfire. Tears wet her eyes and hurriedly she blinked them away, returning her attention to the trees.

Only after she fled on the night of the disaster did Christine know the true depths of what blossomed in her heart for her former teacher. As he stood with her now, after long days of fearing him dead, had he known the truth of who she was – who _he_ was for that matter – she would tell him without hesitation and never again withhold the secret of her emotions. But things had changed so drastically; she no longer knew where she stood with this man, once the musical angel she had known most of her life.

"Why do you ask?" she whispered.

"You said his name in your sleep." His jaw hardened like granite. "He must be special to you. You begged him not to go." She gave no answer, and he continued, "So, is this Erik the reason you have no wish to wed de Chagny? Were you forced into the arrangement with the fool lord of Chateau Martinique against your will? Did you hope to marry this Erik? You must have, you said as much to me on the first night you were brought to my tent…"

Breathless by his choice of questions and the intensity of his demands, she stared at him at a loss, helpless with what to say. This entire discussion felt so thoroughly bizarre. It was clear that he was upset by the idea of Erik and had no concept of his true identity. If she told him, would he believe her? She prodded a little more, hoping it would spark a memory.

"I know why you wear the mask," she said, then thought twice about her reckless approach at the sudden furious burn of his eyes. They singed her with blue fire.

" ** _Never_** ask about my mask," he gritted out softly.

"I don't need to – I know what it hides."

"I highly doubt that, damoiselle."

She inhaled a slow breath for courage. "The right side of your face is badly scarred, a defect that looks something like rosy candle wax hardened in places, from your forehead to just below the – OH!"

She cried out as he painfully grabbed her arm in a vise. His lips drew back from his teeth in a vicious snarl.

"Who told you?! Eustace? _I'll kill him_ …"

"N-no – it wasn't anyone that told me." His cold, deadly eyes seemed made of sharp blue ice, both their earlier flame and current chill posing more of a threat than mere words could say, and she wished she'd not spoken so rashly. "Eustace won't even speak to me, not since that first night. And very little – nothing about you." She experienced a jolt of surprise that she was defending the man who bludgeoned and abducted her, but she wanted no more death.

The Phantom tilted his head as another thought seemed to come to him. His eyes did a quick sweep of her form in wary suspicion.

"Is it true what they say – are you a witch?"

She blinked in pure shock. _That_ is what they were saying about her?

"Eustace told me that you came from the standing stones under a witching moon in the dead of night – and this being the midsummer solstice…"

She didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of such a statement or cry at his unsavory impression of her character or perhaps rage at the entire wretched situation. Superstition certainly ran amok in Brittany! She could hardly believe anyone of sound mind would believe such a fantastical idea, which reminded her of an earlier thought – that he was not entirely sane. But then, if "all" were saying it, perhaps the whole lot of the town was mad! At least one servant at the chateau believed in the idea of faeries.

"I assure you, Phantom, I am no witch."

 _You ask such a thing of me,_ _ **you**_ _who once called me your Angel,_ she wanted to cry out.

His lips thinned again and he took a quick step closer, jerking her arm in his hold while scowling down at her.

"There is only one other manner by which you could have known – as I slept, you spied on my wretched face. Admit it, wench! You struck like a viper and pulled away the mask to appease your damnable curiosity."

Helplessly she shook her head, caught in her own trap. There was little she could say to convince him – even if she were to speak the truth and tell him that he was Erik and she knew him from the Opera House, he would never believe her, since he didn't even seem to know what an opera was, much less the edifice in which it was performed. So she said nothing, which he took as an admission of guilt.

"Prying Pandora," he clipped, and her jarred heart fell at those words so familiar. "You dare to catch me unaware and expose my weakness so as to slake your damnable thirst to know more?"

"You're not weak," she said, but her flattering estimation did not seem to help as he only bared his teeth at her. "I'm sorry," she said meekly, though he could not know her remorse came from speaking at all.

He released her arm with an angry little wrench and stormed away. She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and spun around to watch him go.

"I don't think any less of you," she said to his retreating back. "I hope you believe that."

Abruptly he stopped but did not face her.

"I don't want your pity!" he growled.

"I don't pity you either. Not for your face. If I possess any pity for you, it's in your refusal to accept that someone could actually lo – like you for who you are and not be bothered by your appearance." Her words came out so fast she slipped and almost revealed her true heart. She prayed he wouldn't notice.

It was a long moment before he spoke.

"Return to camp, Christine Daae. It is approaching dusk, and I no longer have a desire for company."

Clenching her hands at her sides in frustration, she watched his long angry strides create more distance then whirled around and stomped back to camp.

xXx

The chill wind played an eerie keening whistle through the trees. The branches sawed against one another in their fight to prevent slumber, the thousands upon thousands of leaves not to be outdone with their constant rustling, like so many costumes of taffeta ...

It was a forest symphony Christine could well do without.

She lay on her back on the thick pelt, wide-eyed, now and then looking toward the tent entrance, where the orange embers of fire glowed against pale canvas. Night had long ago fallen. She tried counting sheep to find slumber, to prod the empty minutes to pass by during the hellish long wait, but the sheep turned into wolves with deadly fangs, all of which chased her, and she quickly dispensed with that useless trick.

His flask sat on the ground nearby, and she bolstered her resolve and took a sip, hoping the warm lethargy it produced would pull her into slumber. The familiar fire burned down her stomach, the coughing and gasping, all of which was expected and no more welcome than the first time. She felt no different, save for the hole singed into the lining of her throat, but was thankful for the calming warmth that stole throughout her body. Not enough to put her to sleep, however, and she reckoned a person must drink more than a sip for the brew to sedate.

What must have been hours had elapsed since they argued. A hundred times she went over the conversation in her mind. Ten times that, she wished she wouldn't have spoken. A score more, she wished she would have phrased her words differently. What devilment had possessed her to bring up his mask?! He had pushed her away from him and to the ground when she removed it the first time, months previously, and the last occasion, a fortnight ago, he had sliced through the rope precariously holding the chandelier in place before taking her with him through a trap door in his desperate escape. Later he had ranted about his face being the poison that ruined their love…

She should have known better.

And so should he.

Christine blew out a harsh breath, her mind slipping back and forth into then, what was two weeks ago, and now, being her entry into Brittany's forest and reunion with Erik. She turned to look at the empty pelt beside her, running her hand along the thick grey fur. Wolves, he'd told her when she first asked, their pelts sewn together to make the warm, bedding of soft blankets, and she struggled to imagine her refined Erik killing such wild beasts. She had seen him in experienced swordplay with Raoul, another grim surprise previously unknown to her – that he could fight and so well. Where and how he had been trained, she could not begin to guess, but most of the time, in the now, he carried a sword hanging from the belt at his waist…

A twig snapped outside the tent. Instantly she sat up, staring hard at the flap and willing the canvas to move aside and admit her Phantom.

And still he did not return.

She gave a little grunt of disgust and stood, pulling her kirtle over the long chemise then cautiously she stepped outside.

It wasn't as windy as she'd thought for the racket caused. The night was dark, two torches staked upright, one in the ground the other in the crack of a flat boulder, both carefully tended away from trees, so no flame could catch bark or leaf. In the light of the nearest torch, she made out the sleeping form of Tobias sitting on the ground with his back against a thick trunk. The area around the campfire was surprisingly empty.

Hearing her foot rustle in the grass, Tobias blinked open sleepy eyes, stared a bit, as if trying to make sense of things, then quickly sat upright to see Christine standing before him.

"Milady! I wasn't sleeping," he lied with a flush of red cheeks.

"And why should you not?" she said, bemused. "It's late and you're obviously weary."

"Le Masque told me to guard you – I beg your silence," he pleaded quietly. "Do not tell him I failed."

"I cannot see that you've failed," she reassured. "You're still at your post. I'm here and safe. But where is Le Masque?"

"Gone with five of the men on a raid."

The news took Christine by surprise and sapped the wind from her lungs.

"A _raid_?" she said at last and shook her head. "But – what on earth are they raiding?"

"Horses, ma'mselle, to replace what was lost. Some time ago, there was a skirmish on the other side of the village. Horses were seized, others lost in battle."

"They went to the village?" Her heart pounded with dread, in fear of Erik being caught. "To steal back the horses?"

"Oh no – not this time. They went to the chateau for supplies."

"The de Chagnys chateau?" she asked in disbelief and the boy gave a short nod. "Do they do this often? Go out on raids?"

She wondered in wry amusement if her Phantom had become something of a Robin Hood, recalling bits and pieces from the tale that so intrigued her as a child. He and his men certainly dressed the part…

"When it's needful," the boy said vaguely. "I have heard the ballad of Robin Hood," he said to her surprise, and she realized she must have aired her musings aloud. He stroked his bow that sat on the ground near him. "I hope one day to be as good an archer."

"And does your band of thieves also rob from the rich and give to the poor?" she quipped lightly.

" _We_ are the poor," the boy said emphatically, almost defensively. "But we never take more than is needful, though Le Masque has every right by heaven and on earth to do so."

Strange words, but then, this entire situation with Erik was bizarre. The longer the lad talked, Christine could see that he suffered from a deep-seated case of hero worship for her Phantom. Little wonder, since as a small child, she felt the same for her Angel, a feeling which intensified through the years. She tearfully called him "fallen idol" little more than a week ago, and he _had_ toppled from his lofty perch in his horrendous dealings with those who ran the theater. But an hour of madness could not dispel years of awed esteem, and her high estimation of him remained – bruised and torn but intact.

Having no desire to return to a cold, empty bed, and relieved the boy was more talkative than he'd been in past days, Christine asked questions – not only about Erik, but about Tobias as well. She learned that his mother and sister died from what he called the black sickness, his da then taking care of him for close to a year before he was run through with a pitchfork. Horrified, she did not ask him to elaborate and felt a wave of empathetic warmth, a motherly care for the lad. To give him some privacy so that he could swipe the tears from his eyes and retain his manly pride, she walked over to the casks, shushing his insistence that she mustn't wait on him. She fetched them both mugs of mead. The other cask contained ale, she knew, and she wondered about the contents of the third. She doubted it contained coffee beans and had learned to go without the stout brew that had been to her an elixir, to better rouse her in the dawn after an intense night's practice with her teacher or a lengthy performance in front of an audience.

Once she returned, the boy was in full control of his feelings again. They talked on and on, and Tobias told her some of his favorite tales of the Celtic Druids, his eyes shining with the surety that they were no myths.

"Not long after I came to Brittany I was warned to be careful of the faeries," Christine mused.

"Aye, you being the Lord de Chagny's intended makes the need doubly so."

She frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You don't know the legend? I wonder that no one told you. It is said that his grandfather, as a young man, did what no mortal has done – he caught one of the Fae. No one saw and it was his word alone, but many believe it so. He kept her locked in a tower as captive, for nigh onto eight moons. When a Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann learned of his treachery, she sent her warriors to rescue the Fae. But was said there came love between the Fae and de Chagny, that the Fae was charmed – he found a witch to create a spell, so that he could catch the Fae and keep her. The Fae did not wish to leave but was forced to return to her kind. The queen cursed the de Chagny line forthwith, that all its sons would never know the love of the woman they chose as mate."

Christine wasn't sure if she was more entertained by the dark little tale or the evidence in his unflinching stare and somber expression that the boy actually believed it to be true.

"Well, it would certainly explain my situation with the Vicomte," she quipped and the boy's smile slowly grew.

"Then there is no love lost between you?"

"No great love, no. He helped in my time of need and was a friend to me. I will be forever grateful for that."

The boys brows sailed up in shock. "The lord of the chateau _lending aid_? You must have made an impression. He is not known for his kindness. A crueler man does not walk the earth."

She realized then that he must be speaking about Raoul's cousin, Vincent, having come to the same conclusion in the five days she'd known him. "I think perhaps you speak of my friend's cousin, also a de Chagny…" she said somewhat absently.

"I did not know his lordship had a cousin…" The boy studied her a long moment. "Le Masque is strong and skilled, and he is wise, like Robin of the Hood. He will come back without harm."

Christine's eyes flew from the forest where she'd been furtively searching and back to his steady stare. "I don't know what you mean." Restless, she began to braid a hank of her loose hair at the bottom, to give her hands something to do.

"Oh, aye." If anything his smile grew wider.

Feeling the warmth of a blush, she discarded toying with her hair and changed the subject, to the life she'd known at the Opera House. He sat wide-eyed as if he'd never heard of such things and stopped her often to question. Given his humble status in life, it wasn't a surprise that the boy knew nothing of the opera, designed for the gentry and others who could afford such polished entertainment.

It was surely well near dawn when at last the coveted sound of hoofbeats were heard in the thicket. Christine hurriedly stood, eagerly scanning the returning riders and noting three new horses. A husky man with an arrow protruding from the back of his shoulder was helped off his horse by two of the other returned raiders. Nowhere could she see a sign of Erik.

"You there," Eustace called out to her.

Hesitantly she approached.

"Have you any spells or knowledge of potions to brew to lend aid?"

At his insinuation, she bristled. "I, sir, am **_not_** a witch." She glared at the circle of men who stared back. A few looked away in unease. "I know nothing of magic or the healing arts, but I have an able pair of hands and will assist however I may be helpful."

Eustace considered her a moment. "Bring mugs of ale all around to curb our thirst then – and be quick about it."

Christine managed not to snap back that she was no barmaid either, reminding herself she _had_ offered to help and it would be only this once.

She grimly set about the task, finding the mugs strewn about the cart. She filled and carried a trio at a time to dole out then returned for more until each man was served. Eustace gulped his down in hefty swallows, the ale wetting his beard and dripping down his neck onto his shirt. He tossed the mug to the ground, turned and took hold of the arrow. "This'll hurt like bloody hell, Nigel…"

"Aye," came the weak answer from the prone man lying on the ground. Another of his friends had held a mug to the wounded man's lips so he could first drink a goodly portion.

Eustace snapped the shaft in half and tightly gripped what remained, forcing the arrow through the other side. A pool of blood seeped on the ground below the new wound at the front of the shoulder. Nigel's tormented screams ripped through the forest, and Christine's stomach lurched as she grabbed a nearby trunk, harshly pressing her forehead to its rough bark, wishing to block out sight and sound.

"Think you can find me a cloth to bind him, wench?" Eustace directed her way as he tossed the bloody arrow to the ground in disgust.

Christine managed the barest of nods and rushed to her tent, at first uncertain what to do as she scanned its sparse contents. The bedding – she certainly couldn't tear into the thick pelts. The log and fire pit were all else the tent contained. What was left of her former clothes lay on the log. It would have to do. With no knife or scissors to cut with, she picked up her old chemise and used her teeth to pull loose the delicate threads, then tore a long strip of material along the seam.

Eustace's brows lifted when she handed him the torn lace-edged garment, but he quickly tied it around the man's shoulder which she could see had been packed with what looked like mud. Three men helped the unfortunate Nigel sit up, and he leaned weakly against their strength, moaning low in his distress, and took another long draught of ale another of his mates offered.

Pointedly avoiding even a glance at the puddle of blood that soaked the ground, Christine edged past and followed Eustace to the low campfire. With a scowl, he threw the broken arrow onto the wood.

"Did Le Masque not come back with you?" she asked quietly, so no one would overhear.

He glanced above her head, in the direction of her tent, then warily looked at her.

"Aye, he did."

"Where is he then?" She glanced over her shoulder in the direction he had looked. "He didn't return to his tent, I was just there, and he's obviously not here…"

"Best to leave him be for the moment, lass." It was the kindest she'd ever heard him speak to her, but his tone still held the hard granite of warning. "He'll return when he's of a mind to."

Dissatisfied but willing to let it go, for now, Christine walked away.

Once dawn came, she found herself darkly agreeing to help with the meal to "break the fast" as Eustace called it. She had crisply told him she was unskilled in the knowledge of cookery. His reply of "your kind never are" made her wish to prove that she could do just as well as any of them. It wasn't her fault that no one taught her the fundamentals. It had never been important to learn such things when others were employed for that purpose, and her skills had been to dance and sing.

Grumbling under her breath about beastly barbarians, she grabbed the pail and began to walk in the direction of the lake. Eustace appeared from nowhere to bar her way.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked gruffly.

She lifted the pail. "For water, of course. I told you, I don't know magic and cannot summon what is needed into the kettle."

His eyes narrowed beneath bushy red brows at her curt sarcasm.

"Tobias!" he called out and snatched the pail from her hand. The boy quickly ran from a group of men to join them. "Fill this up for the kettle. You'll be needing to make several trips. Off with you, lad, and be quick about it! I'm famished enough to eat a whole boar, tusks and all…" As he gave the order, he never once looked from Christine, as if in challenge.

The boy scurried away, and miffed, Christine turned on her heel and plopped angrily down near the sack of grain flakes kept beneath the cart with the barrels, scooping huge handfuls and dumping the mess into a black cauldron. It was clear that Eustace wanted her nowhere near the lake…

And that made her doubly certain the lake was where Erik had gone.

Now she just had to figure out a way to slip past her guards and find him, which at this moment seemed as easily attained as lassoing the moon.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) If you're ever wanting updates as to where I am on chapters/when they will be posted, please remember to check my profile where I update regularly... and now...  
**

* * *

 **VII**

Hours later, long after the bland and mushy gruel had been cooked, stirred, and served to the grimaces of all the men, Eustace again blocked her path when Christine wandered that way. In an attempt to make her actions appear casual, she poked about the violet flora, delicate and plentiful in number and clustered on tall shoots.

"There's nothing for you there, lass," he said with unshakeable resolve.

"Am I not allowed to admire and gather the flowers?" She plucked the stem of one rebelliously.

He narrowed his eyes. "As long as you do your flower gathering within sight of camp."

Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, she regarded him with a scowl she hoped was twice as despicable as any he'd ever given her. A hint of a smile tipped his thick lips.

"Why can I not see him?" she demanded, revealing her knowledge of this brute's reason for detaining her. A horrid thought that stole her breath with the gravity of its message assaulted her mind. "He's not hurt…?"

Eustace cocked his head, peering hard at her as if trying to determine how she was fashioned, then seemed to reach the conclusion that her bones and mind were all in order, judging by his mild snort.

"It's best not to bother him when the black moods hit. It's for your own peace of mind and his that you shan't go near. He'll be back to himself soon enough and will return when he's able."

It wasn't the first she'd heard of Erik's black moods, and she certainly had witnessed his terrible rages firsthand at the Opera House. She had been shocked and hurt when he turned them on her, but never truly terrified, a deep part of her knowing he would never physically do her harm. And she'd been right in that intuition. Even cornered and in his darkest rage he never forced her to submit or laid a hand of violence on her. He had shaken her, demanding to know why, even pushed her harshly away from him, but never once did he strike her. After each of his dark outbursts, she had always gone back to him when he asked, even when he did not, and she thought about that last occasion, when she folded her ring into his hand…

Christine heaved a tense sigh then looked broodingly at the obstacle preventing her from being near to her Phantom.

"Eustace, have you ever been to Paris, with Le Masque?"

At her abrupt turn of conversation, his suspicion resurfaced, but softly he nodded.

"Aye."

"Were you with him when he visited two weeks ago? I saw him," she explained upon seeing the sudden uncertainty in his dark eyes.

"Le Masque has not been to Paris for nigh onto six moons."

"You must be mistaken. I saw him there –"

"It is you who are mistaken, milady. Le Masque was in Brittany. He led the raid on one of de Chagny's holdings that saw one of our own captured."

Christine blinked at his low, chilling words. But that was not possible. She tried to make sense of things.

"Does Le Masque have a brother? A twin, perhaps – identical in appearance?"

He visibly tensed at her first question, then let out a great guffaw at the last.

"I assure you, there is none identical to Le Masque."

Her mind in a chaos of confusion, she could think of nothing else to say or ask and he obviously was not going to be forthcoming with answers that satisfied. Turning on her heel, she sought solace in the Phantom's tent. Either Eustace was lying or Erik was unaware or _both_ men told tales. Or she was going stark raving mad. What seemed to be so cut and dried hours ago now felt scattered like chaff to the four winds.

Only one man could she trust to tell her the lay of things. While staring into his intent eyes, she had seen the truth in his words, even with regard to those things she preferred not to hear. Though he had somehow misplaced his identity, she must find him and seek his knowledge to understand all of what she'd learned….

The day dwindled on, seemingly forever. Every so often she peeked out of her tent to determine if she could meet with success. Always she caught the stares of one of the men and instantly retreated, letting the flap fall closed.

"Hells Bells, will they never stop watching me?" she muttered.

At last, late in the evening while light still filled the sky cloaked by trees, her opportunity came as the vagabonds sought a night of merriment, and she waited for precisely the right moment. Once every man's attention was drawn to the ground and a game of dice, ribald shouts and cheers following, with even Tobias eagerly absent from his post and watching the entertainment, Christine ducked out of the tent and darted down the familiar path.

xXx

Time ceased to bow or bend in the never-ending torments he suffered. Anguish ripped sharp talons into his skull, ripping away with relentless pursuit every shred of thought held in the dark cavity of his mind. In violence he destroyed anything in the proximity of his path until he dropped to his knees, his palms squeezing his head in a futile effort to banish the pain.

And then came the dreams, just as tenacious in their desire to drive him mad.

When he could no longer endure, almost senseless, the visions would rape his mind. Sometimes in a fitful sleep, sometimes in the dark haze of wakefulness. Always playing out the same demonic act, as if to burrow its seed into thoughts and make them his own:

He found himself an observer in a colossal chamber of luxury with a stage flanked by crimson and ebony hangings and rows of many seats clothed with the same hue, like a meeting room of a palace where hundreds of noblemen might preside. Above, in the center of a domed heaven of painted angels, an enormous chandelier with thousands of diamond-like crystals hung suspended…

Cut down…

Falling…

Screams, so many screams.

The terror tasted sharp and metallic in his mouth. And then a voice. Her voice. So gentle. Angelic, then angry. Hurt. Condemning. A face in the shadows he could never see well but knew deep to the marrow of his broken heart.

Other voices mocked. Blood. Pain. Despair. Enraged voices. His own one of them. A cave beneath the earth. Icy water. A swarm of twisted faces. Fists and clubs striking his head, his body, booted feet kicking his ribs, the pain unrelenting, and then absolute darkness – only to repeat the cycle, sometimes with additional visions of heaven and hell crowding into the melee.

Out of the smoky mists of a building ablaze against a dark sky he witnessed her slow approach. Her face, as always, remained in shadow. She seemed to be waiting for something, softly crying, and he groaned, tearing his eyes away, unable to look. Unable not to, as his eyes found her form again. Usually she melted into the darkness or turned away, a pitiful wraith, but this time, she was still there, the sky ablaze in crimson flames beyond her, and he was terrified.

"Leave me!" his command came no more than a croak. Shaking and weakened by the physical and mental agony, no longer able to support his weight on an arm that trembled, he crashed to the ground falling hard on his shoulder.

A sharp little cry of horror, running feet, and then he felt his upper body pulled into soft arms, his head pillowed against full breasts. He tried to focus past the confusion. She had always been out of reach. Taunting. Tempting. Never allowing herself to be caught and held. Never holding him. The encroaching shadows painted her face in darkness, as always, when suddenly she leaned close, her features growing clearer, and he gasped.

" _Christine...?_ "

Tears sparkled in the wide brown eyes, as terrified as his own.

"You know me?" she whispered.

Know her? Should he? Drawing his brows together, he tried to make his mind obey the simple query, to form a reply, but it was useless, and the blades of pain began to press deep into his skull once more.

"Go, damoiselle," he hoarsely said at last, lucidity for the briefest moment slipping past the bonds of lunacy. "I have no wish to harm you."

"Oh – _what is wrong?_ " she begged of him, ignoring his directive and holding him closer. Her palm smoothed frantically over his chest, back, hip and thigh, as if seeking the reason for his miserable state, intent on finding injury. "Please, oh please tell me, what can I do to help? Only tell me!"

It was on the tip of his swollen tongue to order her to go a second time, but other words found their way through his cracked, dry lips instead.

"Sing for me."

The request was both foreign and familiar, thoughts again stripped from his mind as the pain became excruciating. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gave way to the swirling void of darkness.

xXx

Christine held her Phantom close, her heart pounding against her ribs in painful thuds, his heart echoing the frantic tempo of hers.

Following his trail had been simple, a swathe of destruction of cut branches and limbs such as a sword would make littering the path, until she'd come upon the sword itself, carelessly thrown aside. She had stared in horror at the engraved silver handle of a skull with rubies for eyes and a blade so lethal, then hurried down the east side of the cliff near the lake, where an outcropping of gray rock stood nearly hidden by hanging vines and bushes.

Her first sight of him lying on his side on the ground, struggling to push himself up had frightened her. His clothes were muddy, his mask torn from his head, lying near him, his hand clawed over half his face. But the moment he looked up into her eyes as she drew him close to her bosom and bent near, she had been so sure she'd seen the memory of her come to life in his one uncovered eye. Then he had called her damoiselle, as only Erik of the Forest would, and her hopes had been dashed – to be renewed by his hoarse plea that seemed to stun even him.

She traced her fingertips against the part of his face not hidden behind his hand, the lines of pain there making his features sharp, his lashes and skin wet from tears and sweat, and this she wiped away with her sleeve. No other man's opera would suffice, not even his own scandalous Don Juan, and from her lips she released the gentle strains of his music that no one else had heard, the music he once shared with her in his dark cavern of candlelight five cellars beneath the earth, the music of the night…

Within a few lines of her song, his body tensed from thigh to shoulder, every muscle held taut and rock solid as stone against her. After several lines more, she felt the gradual release of his tension. She brushed long strands of damp hair from his brow as she finished her song. A long silence passed once the last note held and wavered on the air, and she thought him asleep.

"Write," he whispered hoarsely.

She shook her head in confusion. "What?"

"Not sing…write."

Her heart slammed against her chest at his words. She had altered his lyrics slightly to make them personal, coming from her. "The music that I write" becoming "the music that I sing." And the composer had noticed the difference, even if he still did not seem aware of the reason for such knowledge.

She struggled against the fear that this snippet of memory returning was all a fluke, a dreadful coincidence, and held fast to the fledgling hope that it was not.

"Would you like me to sing another?" she asked him quietly.

He did not respond, nor did he refuse, and she followed the tugging of her heart, the words she sang a gentle melody he once sang to her in her dreams as a child. From the gradual calm that eased his body, she felt her song had found whatever struggle hampered his soul, until at last by his even breathing, he slept.

Having no desire either to move or release him, she leaned her shoulder blades against a smooth boulder for support. His hand he still held over his scarred face that he had turned toward her bosom, the unblemished side freely open to her tender perusal in the deepening twilight. His was a handsome face, a strong straight nose – on this half – beautifully sculpted cheek, jaw and brow…his lips, the bottom fuller than the upper in a slight pout, the edges forever tilted upward in mockery, and she felt a rush of warmth to remember them crushed against hers. He possessed a defined face to complement a lean, chiseled body. The man could be a god, like one of those many statues and paintings she'd seen at the opera, save for the flaw that swept across most of his countenance on the right side. Earlier, she had glimpsed enough through the gaps of his fingers to know the deformity was there, that this was her Erik. Surely no twin could be _that_ identical.

Silently she vowed to help her beloved Maestro find a way back to who he was and who they were together. Recalling what had just happened here, music, perhaps, was the key.

xXx


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)  
**

* * *

 **VIII**

.

Christine woke, slowly opening her eyes.

She reclined upon the mossy earth, her head pillowed by a cloak not her own, a small campfire burning a comfortable distance away from her feet. The skies were black as ink and she familiarized herself with her surroundings. She lay in a rocky cove of a forest glen. As the blur of sleep left and her eyes focused, she saw the Phantom a short distance away, standing near the fringes of the lake. He had his back to her, his stance meditative, his feet planted apart and hands clasped behind him. Once more he appeared in control, and she pushed herself up on one arm to see him better.

Erik… Her heart reached out to him.

As though he heard its silent stir, he glanced over his shoulder at her then returned his gaze ahead of him, to the dark forest.

"How long was I absent this time?" he asked quietly.

She pushed the tousled nest of curls from her eyes. "When I arrived, a full day and night had passed." Swallowing over a dry throat, she feared to ask but needed to know. "Do you remember anything of what happened?"

"Very little. It's always the same." He sighed and bowed his head. "The blinding pain in my skull. The strange dreams. The blackness and loss of time…"

"Dreams?"

He paused a moment then turned slightly to look at her. Another long silence elapsed, and Christine wasn't sure he would speak, almost jumping when he did.

"Nightmares," he corrected somberly. "A massive chamber of music that blends into screams. Fire. Blood. Falling through a bridge into hell…" He shook his head and cast his eyes to the nearby flames, as if wishing to forget...

…or struggling to remember.

She convulsively clutched blades of grass beneath one hand as he recounted what sounded like the debut of his Don Juan opera.

"Was anyone with you in these dreams?"

Again the silence stretched far and wide.

He turned suddenly to face her. "Why did you come here, Christine Daae?"

She startled at his swift movement and change of topic.

"You were absent a long time."

"But why did you come?"

"I was worried about you."

"Why?"

Christine stared into his eyes, mesmerizing, even from this distance, and dearly wished to tell him the truth. Yesterday, he supposed she might be a witch. He had no prior knowledge of her, did not trust her, so why would he believe the story of their life if she told him its existence? Indeed, she might complicate matters with the revelation, and he might account it to chicanery or worse, sorcery.

She was doubly thankful that she lived in a century that no longer burned women accused of witchcraft at the stake or sent them to their deaths by dunking and drowning in deep water. Had she been born to an earlier era, with the suspicions he and his men held against her, she might have easily become cinders in the wind or food for the fish.

Shivering at so morbid a thought, Christine drew her cloak more tightly about her, and shook such impractical imaginings away. Curious what he believed about his past, she could not resist a question.

"You said you had no name until that which your men gave you." She ignored his raised brow at her evasive reply. "How did that come to be?"

"You wish to know my life story?" he asked wryly.

"It's only fair. You sought to know portions of mine."

"That is the way of it, with a captor and his captive."

She shrugged lightly. "And you think the captive is not curious about her captor?"

"Again, I ask – why?"

"I have always had a desire to know more about those I lodge with," she said carefully. "At present, that is you."

He snorted. "The story is not a pretty tale woven to enchant a maiden," he countered. "It is dark and it is twisted."

"I have found that I prefer truth to enchantment. Truth is solid and real, easy to grasp, while enchantment is fragile and fleeting, woven from the fabric of dreams. And dreams can be so unstable. I would like to hear your tale, coarse though it may be."

He regarded her pensively, as if uncertain he should speak, then paced back and forth a short distance in agitation, with hands clasped behind him. She inhaled a sharp breath at the familiarity of his actions, having witnessed them weeks ago beneath the earth in his lair, after he'd plead with her to know "why?" Suddenly he spun around to face her.

"You know of _this."_

He motioned with bare tolerance to the right side of his face and the mask there. Tentatively she nodded. He cursed beneath his breath and glanced away.

"I was born with the affliction. Born and left to die at the Megaliths of Carnac – the standing stones near the chateau," he clarified at her confusion. "As I understand it, there was hope that the faeries would take the changeling I was thought to be and replace me with the babe my parents was certain was theirs, taken and held hostage by the faeries…"

Christine winced at the sardonic flow of words that held more than a trace of bitterness. She had witnessed the superstitious nature of the people of Brittany, but this defied reason. She could hardly perceive that such dark beliefs were held so strongly in this century, or that parents existed who would cast away their infant son due to a physical imperfection.

"As you can see, I did not die," he went on dourly, looking past her to the wall of rock beyond where she sat. "An old hag found and took me to her cottage in the forest. There, she raised me, not as a son, but trained as an assistant. She was a cruel and violent mistress. I was beaten for the least infraction, one of her favorite torments to lock me in a cage like an animal, for days at a time. I did all chores, cooked meals, and learned how to find roots and herbs for her elixirs and potions. She never gave me a name, calling me 'boy' if she wished to engage my attention. I was her slave, never a son. _She_ was a true witch."

Christine blinked at the similarities and the disparities to the dark tale Raoul had passed along to her, originally told to him by Madame Giry: How when they were both children, she saved Erik from the wicked gypsy carnival. Why should either Raoul or Madame change a story that was just as harsh as the original, when nothing could be gained from doing so? Madame's version _must_ be true, and she had been there to know. So why did Erik believe this alternate story to be his reality? She did not believe he purposely lied; too much pain clouded his eyes, his expression hard.

When he remained silent, Christine gently prodded. "What happened to her?"

He let out a curt chuckle. "Already ancient when she found me, she died in my fifteenth winter. It was just as well, as with the passage of each moon I grew stronger and could think of nothing more than to wrap my hands around her neck, to escape her many cruelties. I remained at the cottage until I happened across the path of Eustace. The fool blundered into a rope trap I set, but it wasn't until two years more that I joined him and his band of thieves."

"And you became their leader, just like that?" she mused in astonishment.

He laughed darkly. "Nay, it was some time before I earned their trust, though not all have earned mine. There are those who would depose me to take my place. They think I have no knowledge of this, but I have heard talk, acting as a Phantom," he dryly used the name she'd given him, "while hiding in the shadows."

His manner grew intense and he pointed at her to emphasize his words. "You must never go anywhere without the escort I assign to you, damoiselle. You were foolish to seek me out, and I shall have words with the young Tobias. He will be punished for his negligence."

"Oh, no – don't blame him." Christine had no wish for the lad to find trouble because of her. "I slipped away when no one was watching."

"Exactly. He should have been more aware. His task was to guard the tent. A lack of vigilance can lead to death for rebels such as us."

"But it was entirely my fault. I watched and waited for the few seconds that his back was turned. He guarded me well the entire day, like an unblinking owl."

"And yet here you are."

Christine sighed in weary frustration, seeing he would not bend to her wishes, and decided it best to change the subject. She asked the question that had plagued her for days.

"Have you given any thought to my request to go to Paris?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes studying her. "I have business there. We leave at dawn, upon our return to camp."

She jumped to her feet in surprise. "You're taking me to Paris? What? - you mean _now?"_

He seemed mildly amused by her flustered words.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"Oh no, not at all," she assured him with a faint smile. She wondered again how recently he'd been to the city, how often he traveled there, but wasn't sure it would help to know. He appeared to have no knowledge of who he truly was, and Erik had only come to her during her tri-weekly lessons and after her debut performance as a soloist. Still, she wished to know everything.

"Your man, Eustace, mentioned it's been six months since your last visit."

"Has it?" he asked with disinterest. His gaze went above the trees to the sky that had gone a lighter shade of gray. "Well, he would know."

An odd response, and Christine was about to inquire what he meant by it, when he again turned to look at her. "Upon our arrival, where is it you wish to go? This Opera House of which you often speak?"

"Yes, I believe I'll find my friends there."

He gave a curious little nod. "I would like to see a performance of this opera. It piques my interest."

Christine's smile faded. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. There was…a fire. The theater is closed to the public, but I feel Madame will be there regardless. In another wing of the building."

The stage, the orchestra pit, and more than a third of the seats in the auditorium had been destroyed Raoul told her, but the dormitories might still be habitable. If so, Madame would never abandon her ballet rats who depended so heavily on her. She would be there.

"That is unfortunate. I should have liked to hear you sing."

His low words brought warmth blossoming into her heart, mixed with a wave of sadness. Clearly he did not recall her tender songs to him in the night to ease his torment.

"I don't have to be at the Opera House to sing. I can sing right here. That is, if you would like me to…"

Of all the many occasions, of all the many places her Maestro had heard her sing, the many years, it seemed strange she should feel so terribly awkward and anxious of his reception to her voice, here, in this secluded cove by the lake, where he no longer remembered her. She was out of practice, had vowed not to sing again since that night, and he had trained her to practice every day…

"I would like that."

His quiet words jarred her and she took an unsteady breath.

"What would you like to hear?"

Faust and other dark operas felt unsuitable for what he so recently endured, and she certainly could not sing an aria from his first and last opera of vengeance and death…

"An Italian opera, perhaps," she suggested quickly. "Verdi's La traviata?"

"You know the language of Rome?"

"Only the words I'm taught to sing. Operas are often performed in a foreign tongue, though not always."

"How then does your audience understand?"

"The music, I suppose - how the words are sung and the story played out. The audience always seems to receive the gist of the message, even if they don't comprehend the meaning of all the words."

He seemed impressed then shook his head. "I would prefer to hear words understood, in the language we speak."

The need to understand was mutual, a recurring theme in her life at present, and Christine knew the perfect song. However, she did not take into account the havoc it would wreak on her emotions to sing it.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in awhile, please promise me you'll try…"

Similar to the day she'd first sung for the managers her voice came out tight, weak and uncertain. The words stuck in her throat, striking too close to home in this bizarre situation with her Phantom, and she looked away from his intent eyes the moment she began to sing. She thought about abruptly ending the aria and performing another, then curled her fingers into fists at her sides, determined to see this through, though it tore her heart in pieces to do so.

"…When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free. If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me…"

She braved a glimpse in his direction. He stood in profile, staring hard into the trees, his back and shoulders tense. Not once did he look her way, and she tried to quell tears of disappointment and not allow them to manifest in her voice. Closing her eyes, she continued her sad aria, letting her muddled feelings for Erik color the words.

A heavy silence followed the cascading rise and fall of her final cadenza of notes. The whir of night insects and the rustle of leaves stirred by a cool breeze were all of what remained of sound to acknowledge a world still existed.

At the rustle of his step, her eyes flew open. Her heart pounded as he walked steadily toward her, the firelight behind casting his face and form in shadow. Lifting his thumb to her cheek, he wiped away an errant tear then lowered his mouth to hers.

x

Stunned from all rational thought, Christine could not move, the coolness of his lips brushing against her trembling ones invoking a heat that melted prudent inhibition. She leaned softly into him and touched her tongue lightly to his to taste him. He let out a low, hungered growl, his hand moving to cup the back of her head while wrapping his arm around her waist.

The feel of his mouth on hers swiftly changed from tender to impassioned, the deep thrusts of his hot tongue answered by her gentler caresses. She was falling, soaring, drowning, and she clutched his shirt in tight fistfuls to remain standing, though he held her so close she felt the heat from his body like a flame that seared her, branded her –

Then just as suddenly as it began, he pushed her away.

His action was rapid but gentle, and he held to her shoulders until he was sure she wouldn't fall. She looked wonderingly up into his eyes, hers full of question.

Beyond the mask, she could not read his expression and never had she wished to more.

"I thank you, ma belle fille, for the gift of your song. It was…enlightening."

His raspy words seemed to mock, out of place with what she thought had just happened between them, and wounded her to the core. She had silently offered him her heart. He had sampled, as if she were a tasty dish, then rejected her as easily. He had the face of Erik but was not her Angel. This man was a devil, no disguise.

"Never do that again," she whispered.

He cocked his head to the side. "Are you sure that's what you want, damoiselle?" he taunted, a finger tilting beneath her chin, making her look into his eyes of cool blue fire. Eyes absent of the emotion that still coursed through her veins. "That is not the impression you gave."

" _And **stop** calling me that!_ "

Vexed beyond the frivolity of meaningless words and empty flirtations, she slapped his hand away and took a step back. Her shoulder blades met with cold rock.

His laugh was derisive. "You may rename me, but I'm not allowed to call you by what title I wish? Or is there more to this? Would that I had **_remained_** in shadow, my face never to be seen. You might have found my advances more appealing then."

She regarded him in disbelief. "You think it's your face that causes me distress?" The grievous worry for his welfare throughout the entire past day and night sharpened nerves taxed to their limits. "Oh, just go back to your band of merry men! You don't know what I'm feeling, you can't know – you have **_no_** _idea._ ** _"_**

She brushed past him, barely a step, before her elbow was grasped and he swung her around to face him.

"What is it that you keep from me, Christine Daae?" His features hardened to stone when she remained rebelliously silent. "Do you _spy_ for de Chagny? Perhaps your capture was anticipated, and you are the bait to his trap?"

Her eyes widened further in incredulity. "First you think me a witch, now I'm a spy and bait." His accusation rubbed a raw spot that seemed never to heal when she considered that she'd once been exactly that. "In light of your low opinion of my character, would you believe anything I tell you? Is there a blessed thing I can say that would make you take my word as truth? Especially when the truth is so wretchedly confusing and impossible and ambiguous that I'm not sure even I believe it!" The last slipped out before she could stop herself and she winced at the blunder.

"An excess of words oft hides a guilty soul," he countered dryly, his manner unflappable.

"No, you _heartless scoundrel_!" she snapped, her eyes mere slits. "A thousand times no – I'm not a spy, and I'm not a witch! And if you take me to Paris, I can prove my innocence."

He regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion. "Perhaps in that city lies the trap. It would explain your persistence to go there."

She wanted to scream in frustration but only stared in horror.

"Does that mean you're now refusing to take me?" she asked, her voice going soft with dread.

He sighed. "I would be a poor leader if I did not exercise caution and blindly surrendered trust, even to a damsel so fair. There are very few in this world whom I trust, and no one implicitly. I may be heartless and a scoundrel but I am also a man of my word, Christine Daae. I will take you to Paris, but heed me well – if you seek to betray me you will live to regret it."

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks again for the reviews! :) We're soon arriving to the moment some of you have been waiting for - the moment of truth. ;-)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Since a few of you wished for it, here's a longer chapter. ;-) (Though I can't promise it will always be that way)...**

* * *

 **Chapter IX**

.

Much later than he would have liked, once significant issues were dealt with, including the inspection of Nigel's wound at Eustace's request and making the poultice to fight the infection that could spread through his blood, Le Masque informed his men of his imminent plans. One of the rare occasions he did not use Eustace as his mouthpiece.

He picked two of his band to journey with him, the remainder to stay behind, giving those men duties and commanding them to steer clear of the chateau and attempt no rescue until he returned. He cast a stern eye at the grumblings of Marcel's close companions, Aubert and Richard, warning those men that if they chose to disobey, whatever problems they incurred were theirs alone to bear. Marcel's fate was the first and final warning.

Both men remained silent, Aubert giving only a stiff nod, though the stubborn anger of insubordination burned dark in their eyes. Let them act falsely. If they would not heed his words, they would rue the day, and for once he would not be the instigator of that threat.

As he issued orders, Le Masque could not help notice Christine near his tent at the edge of the clearing, her eyes never leaving him. He felt her to the marrow of his bones…had ever since the past night he could scarcely recall. The blackness had come, accompanied by the usual dreams from hell and heaven, and with it, her song. That too, he'd had little recollection of, only remembering the pain had eased with her gentle voice, a pure voice such as he'd never heard, giving him a strange sense of completeness, as though something missing had been found.

He had awakened abruptly from the void to find her sound asleep, halfway draped over a low moss-furred rock and holding him loosely in her arms. Her luxuriant dark curls had been fanned out in silky ripples all around her, thin ribbons of silver painted by moonbeams lending an ethereal cast to her delicate visage, and he had stared at the vision she made, spellbound.

Remembrance of the recent week with her had not been vague, the memories with her more fixed in his mind than those memories retained from former blackouts. Her offer to sing intrigued him, and the moment he heard her voice, aside from its rare beauty, he had the oddest sensation that it called out to him, as if to remind him of something he should know. He vaguely recognized the voice of his dreams, heard her sorrow, had seen her tears, and though it distressed even _angered_ him to know she wept for missing the man she acknowledged in restless slumber, Le Masque had gone to her, as a needy moth to her sweetly burning flame, unable to prevent what, like the unassuming moth, surely must be the commencement of his demise.

The kiss had been spontaneous, as necessary as the next breath, a token meant to comfort. Whether her or him or both, it failed to matter. It developed into much more than that. The moment she yielded, he possessed her with no thought but to make her his own, until the memory of her softly crying out her lover's name in dreams came back to haunt him, along with the certainty that she likely imagined herself to be in _that_ man's arms.

Would that he could forget her presence, but the passage of each day made such an undertaking impossible and the wanting of her stronger. Five days and nights she had dwelt within his camp, and the bizarre truth of it was he felt as if never a moment elapsed in his lifetime that he did not know her. She called to a place deep within his soul, a place he feared to travel…

Already his worst foe, the Vicomte de Chagny would demand blood once he learned that Le Masque had stolen away his newly intended, though that is not what lent to his qualms. The Vicomte's recent spurned marriage offer for the Lady Anne, the youngest daughter of a Marquis, had flayed the fool's pride. While Le Masque certainly did not fear the pompous noble, he was not so foolish as to wish to invite further harassment. Under the Vicomte's orders, his soldiers had seized their horses, found and destroyed their camp, twice, when Le Masque and his band of fugitives were absent, and now imprisoned one of their own in chains. This act of keeping Christine with them, _sleeping in his bed_ , would surely see them all severely punished.

And yet, to relinquish the lovely damoiselle, as he must, weighed heavy on his soul.

She had been mutinously silent since he delivered his warning at the cove not to cross him. He could not yet fully discount that she might be a spy, and the mute nods and curt shakes of her head in response to any questions asked did not help convince him otherwise. Certain that this day would test his mettle to its limits in more ways than one, he ignored her as he walked past where she stood and approached the newly reclaimed horses.

He was not surprised to hear the rustle of grass as she fell into step behind him.

"I fear none of these mounts are gentle enough for a lady," he said, stopping before one roan mare and cautiously stroking its velvet nose. The wild look in the beast's eyes gave Le Masque cause to wonder if the horses had been mistreated while in the Vicomte's captivity. "Can you sit a horse well?"

He turned to look when she gave no answer.

Her eyes had gone wide as she stared at the roan's blunt teeth then dropped her gaze to the wide iron shoes. Nervously she shook her head.

"When last have you ridden?" he asked a question that necessitated speech.

She hesitated. "I never have."

Cheered to hear words, he regarded her with dry amusement. "Ah, so you do still have a tongue in your head. I was beginning to wonder. I understood all ladies of breeding are taught to ride."

A fiery glint sparked in her dark eyes though her voice remained calm. "I never had the need," she said dismissively. "Nor did I feel a need to speak when you have already judged and found me guilty of sorcery or espionage or both!"

He sensed the deep hurt that lay beneath her low words though he failed to understand the reason.

"I only asked, I did not accuse, and as to the other, I have no concept what you mean." He blew out a terse breath, struggling to retain his composure. "Never mind. You will ride with me."

Her chill calm disintegrated before his eyes.

"Oh but, _I can_ _learn_ to ride…"

He scowled at her sudden evident desire not to be near his person and walked toward where his own stallion pawed the ground, eager to be off and already saddled as he had asked Tobias to do. Christine followed, keeping a few steps between them.

"I have not the opportunity to teach you, nor the time to loiter at the pace of a slug while you learn the fundamentals that would ensure you don't end up thrown to the ground and crack that pretty head of yours wide open. The horses are excitable enough and need the hand of an expert horsewoman."

He took a step her way. Only then did she realize she had backed up.

"Come, damoiselle, the time is upon us. We must reach Paris with all haste."

Christine watched in wary regard as he took another step until he stood a breath away and she could see the gleam in his eyes, one of arrogant mischief and command she had witnessed before. She sidestepped to the right, he to the left to block her.

This was ridiculous.

"Really, monsieur, I -"

Without warning his large hands spanned her waist and hoisted her into the air as if she were a feather. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders for balance while he carried her the short distance, then tossed her up to the broad back of his stallion.

Christine landed heavily on her derriere and scrambled to get a handhold. The saddle was hardly a saddle – a makeshift composition of folded blankets beneath connected strips of leather – and she grabbed and clung to the stallion's coarse mane to stay atop, having no wish to haul up her gown to her bare thighs and straddle the beast or topple to the ground as he inferred she might, which seemed a long way down.

Erik put his foot in the stirrup and swung up easily behind her, one arm going around the front of her waist and holding her against his chest, before he took the reins Eustace handed up to him. Her hips rested snugly between Erik's muscled thighs and the burn of a blush seared her skin when she remembered the night by the lake.

They began their journey and she wriggled, trying to put a more modest distance between them. Suddenly his arm tightened beneath her breasts, his lips moving near her ear, his breath warming the cold rim.

"Damoiselle, I cannot vouch for the continuance of your virtue if you persist in like manner." His words came soft as silk but dark with meaning.

The fiery heat of embarrassment again flooded her face, and Christine froze, suddenly realizing the hardness she felt at her backside had nothing to do with the rudimentary saddle but everything to do with the mystery of Erik. She had no wish to encourage him to instigate forbidden acts - and especially atop a horse! Nonetheless, absolute immobility was a difficult feat, nearly impossible when seated on the walking beast.

"Relax," he said after minutes of this torture. "Hades will not bolt or throw you. He is well trained under my hand."

"You named your horse _Hades_ ," she said through stiff lips, "and that is supposed to _reassure_ me?"

He chuckled, and her back and shoulders eased slightly to hear the agreeable sound. It was rare that she heard Erik laugh.

"Unless your name is Persephone, you have nothing about which to be concerned," he quipped.

Apparently he had not forgotten his mythology, those intriguing tales of gods and goddesses he shared with her in her girlhood, and Christine dwelled on that. She had been kidnapped and held his hostage twice, though in this forest masquerade of which he had no control, he did not instigate her abduction and she doubted from things said that he even wished her to remain in his company. Her plan was to take him to the Opera House, hoping an encounter with Madame Giry could spark his memory. Her ballet instructor had known the Phantom the longest, since they were children, and might know of some manner in which to bring him back to the knowledge of who he truly was, where Christine had failed. It was the last hope she had to cling to.

As they journeyed, she concentrated on their surroundings and soon all but forgot her discomfiture to be pressed against him. The warmth of his solid body against hers was a pleasurable comfort, the urge to lean back soon impossible to suppress.

The trees seemed far greater in number than what little she remembered on her journey with Raoul to Brittany over a week ago, the road clearly a different one. She had stared out a carriage window but scarcely took notice of the countryside, her mind caught up in ceaseless worry over Erik's fate and the tragic events of the Don Juan.

Now, with Eustace and Tobias riding behind them, Erik blessedly alive and with her, Christine studied the vista, enjoying the crisp, clean air and the trees in such abundance and so widespread, even once they left the dense part of the forest. She did not regret one moment of her life at the opera, but had never been given this kind of freedom to roam. Outings with Raoul were scheduled and precise, covering the social niceties and little else – museums, soirees, and similar gatherings held in noble homes. The random occasions she visited the city with Meg and Madame Giry had been to shop for trinkets and necessities. This journey reminded her of the first years of her life, traveling the countryside while entertaining with her Papa, and only now did she realize how much she missed its nomadic appeal.

Near the noon hour, with the sun directly above and dappling gold coins of light through the branches and onto the dirt path, hunger began to gnaw at Christine. They passed under the low-hanging boughs of a row of similar trees, and she was intrigued to see the fruit they bore dangling from branches that hung well within reach.

"Go ahead," Erik urged, seeing the direction of her eager gaze.

Delighted she lifted her hand high to grasp a ripe golden-red morsel, plucking it loose as the horse walked beneath. She bit into the skin, closing her eyes in pleasure at the sweet juiciness of the soft fruit as she chewed, then took another bite without swallowing her first.

"I take it you are pleased?"

"Mmm," she answered, her mouth too full to give a coherent reply. She ignored his clear amusement of her less than ladylike behavior.

Away from the de Chagny entourage, servants and family alike, her actions were no longer held under a magnifying glass, and it was…exhilarating. Without a thought or a care, she turned and held the fruit near his mouth for him to take a bite. He stared with surprised question into her eyes. Realizing what she'd done and now feeling a bit self-conscious, she wondered if she should apologize for her impulsive act.

Before she could withdraw, he leaned in and bit down. His lips lightly edged her fingers with the action, and she almost dropped the fruit at the tingles of sensation that warmed her hand.

"Delicious indeed," he said, his eyes intimating more than the fruit.

Suddenly shy, she surreptitiously licked the juice from her lips and studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He watched her, his breath hitching on a barely audible gasp. With the intensity in which he stared, she thought for one wild, reckless moment he might bend his head and press his lips to hers, was stunned by how much she wanted him to, but he only whipped his focus back toward the path and did not look at her again.

Quietly she finished the fruit, the joy of the act gone. The ensuing silence became her enemy. It gave Christine too much time to think, always a litany of the same questions, all which offered no answers.

In the late afternoon, they stopped near a stream to water and rest the horses, then continued on until evening. The western sky was aglow with crimson, gold, and violet ribbons of color, lulling her into a weary kind of enchantment, by the time Erik finally broke the silence. At the unexpectedness of his deep voice above her ear, the stirring rumble of it felt against her back, she jumped against him. Immediately he tightened his arm that had grown lax around her.

"I-I'm sorry – what did you say?" she whispered.

"I said, we are a short distance from the city. However, darkness will cloak it long before we arrive, and I dare not travel by night. We shall camp here and enter by the left bank come morning."

Uncertain why they should wait, she shook her head. "Why not go now?"

"We must avoid the nightwatch and cannot light a torch at risk of being seen."

Christine barely nodded, feeling foolish and confused at the same time. After the opening night of the Don Juan, the Phantom was a wanted man in Paris. Though with the tall iron lamps scattered along the streets and boulevards, the lamplighters surely fleet of foot in their task, she failed to understand why they would need to carry their own source of light.

"What if you're recognized?" she whispered, suddenly anxious for him and now certain this was a very bad idea.

When he gave no response, she turned her head to look. He stared at her as if she was a puzzle he wished to solve.

"You sound as if you care."

She felt unsure of how to answer. "Perhaps it was a mistake to ask you to take me."

"You no longer wish to find your friends?" he sounded surprised.

"No, I do. But I think you should just deposit me outside of Paris. I can find my way to the Opera House."

She had no desire to part ways with him, but the thought of his arrest chilled her blood, and surely they could find a safer way to meet later…

" _Deposit_ you…" He looked at her oddly then shook his head. "I have no intention of pushing you off Hades to leave you anywhere, save for the destination I plan to take you."

At the steel of his tone, Christine did not persist. He thought her his captive. She doubted she could convince him to remain behind while she strolled alone into the city. If not for the concern for his safety, she would dearly welcome his presence, insist on it even, though she could not tell him that either. And so she took the coward's way out and slipped back into silence.

x

Once they made camp, Tobias and Eustace disappeared on foot into the trees, the boy armed with his bow and quiver of arrows. Erik tended to his horse while Christine surveyed her twilight surroundings. All around loomed trees and hills, with no sign of a city in sight.

She kept her distance, sensing Erik required his and watched idly as he gathered twigs and small branches to start a fire. He did not look at her once, his bearing rigid, his face, what she could see of it, as blank as the mask he wore.

Tobias and Eustace returned after dark, each man carrying the carcass of a small mammal. While they skinned and prepared the meat, Erik stood a short distance away, leaning his shoulder against a tree, arms folded as he stared at a remote hill. Christine wondered what lay so heavy on his mind and only just prevented herself from approaching him to ask.

They supped around the fire, the other two men conversing with one another, and Eustace commended the lad for his sharp eye in gaining them a decent night's meal.

"A finer hunter than Tobias ye'll not find," Eustace praised. To Christine's surprise the words were addressed to her.

"Did you not also take part in the hunt?"

"Oh, aye, but Tobias is quicker with the arrow, and has the eyes of a cat, much like our leader. I like a good dagger, but throwing it falls short in the hunt for small game. Though for a boar, only a crossbow will do."

She looked toward Erik, who sat a little apart from them and had maintained his silence.

"And do you hunt with a crossbow or with a dagger?"

He took a moment before answering. "When I hunt, I prefer to use traps."

His quiet admission brought to mind the many perilous snares beneath the Opera House and the trap door they had fallen through to get there.

"My Papa tried to teach me to fish once," she said, "the summer before he died, when we lived by the sea." She wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't very adept at the task." She detested piercing the worm on the hook, though digging for them with her fingers in the cool, wet soil had been rather nice, at least in the mind of a five-year-old child. Trying to remain silent as they sat on a rock with their sticks for poles had been nearly impossible, when all she wanted was to lift her voice in song to the rushing and receding lull of the waves…"

"Do you sing?" she asked Erik suddenly, and he looked up from his serving of roasted squirrel in wary surprise.

"I have never found cause," he said slowly, watching her. "I am no bard and would not fit into your Opera House. The lad, he is the one with the voice for such things."

In frustration that he should speak so falsely, and actually _believe_ the ruse, when he had a voice to rival the angels, she urged, "Will you not try?"

"No." He focused on his meal and took the last bite from the bone.

"Very well then." Christine pasted on a tight smile and turned to Tobias. "Would you gift us with a song? I welcome a night's entertainment."

The lad squirmed in prideful embarrassment but nodded. "Anything for you, milady."

The boy sang a hymn, his voice a sweet tenor, still childlike, gentle and clear and bringing a sense of comfort. Afterward, Eustace chimed in with his own off-key tune, a bawdy song of a milkmaid and a wanderer. Accustomed to the risqué lyrics associated with the lewd operettas performed at the opera house, Christine did not bat an eyelid at the ribald words, though she did cringe a bit when he seemed to try for a B sharp and went unerringly flat.

She noticed with satisfaction that Erik also winced.

"Are you sure you don't want to chime in with your own tune?" Christine tried once more to interest him. She dearly missed his voice and wished to hear him sing again. It would also help solidify her belief that this was her Angel, for surely no two men could share the same heavenly voice. Though she really no longer harbored any doubts of his being Erik, his stubbornness another trait she remembered only too well.

"We must rise before dawn." He rose to stand. "I advise you to get some sleep."

She watched glumly as he strode to his horse and grabbed a bundle he had strapped there. Rolling it out, he laid it on the ground, and she noticed the blanket of fur pelts.

"I must tend to nature's call first," she said stiffly. "I trust you have no objection?"

"Do not wander far."

Christine turned her back on him, disgusted by his obdurate nature that would not allow him to bend the tiniest bit to give her a simple song. Eustace certainly possessed no talent, but had offered no restraint to sing. Erik's voice was more masterful than any she'd ever heard, inside the opera or out of it, and again she toyed with the notion of telling him who he truly was…

And again disposed of the notion for the same reasons that held her back before.

One, he would think her mad. Or two, he would think her a witch up to some sort of sorcery. After all, she had "come from the standing stones in the dead of night beneath a witching moon."

She rolled her eyes at such superstitious twaddle. Either scenario would cause him to distrust anything she said. If she told him and he thought her a witch, it would surely arouse his suspicions, perhaps remind him of the old woman who he believed had raised and treated him so shabbily–and he might then regard Christine with loathing, as most of his men did. She could not bear such a prospect and felt doubly grateful they no longer burned witches at the stake, having dispensed with that dark practice in the eighteenth century. She remembered that from her childhood studies of the history of France. And while she did not believe Erik of the Forest would harm her, not after putting his own life at risk in that ghostly lake to save hers, his men showed no such scruples.

Once she returned to the bed of furs, she noticed Eustace and Tobias now sat with their backs to her at the campfire. Discussing something in low, serious tones, they paid her no heed.

And Erik, wretchedly elusive Phantom-Ghost that he was, stood nowhere in sight.

With a disgruntled sigh, Christine lay down, using her cloak as a cover. Thoroughly chilled without the heat of Erik's body to warm her, she realized how she had grown too wretchedly accustomed to having him lie beside her, and it took some time for sleep to come.

x

She was startled into wakefulness and sat up, uncertain what had alarmed her.

Her eyes widened with terror as the sound came again – a low mournful howl from somewhere nearby. It raised the fine hairs on her arms, and she looked toward the campfire, relieved to see steady flames still highlighted the area. What gave her true cause for alarm was to see the men were gone.

Clasping her cloak hard beneath her chin she scoured the darkness beyond the flames. Thick gray clouds slipped with slow stealth across the sky in a gradual reveal of the moon's bright beacon, no longer full, but complete enough to give off light. And suddenly washed in that light, standing at a distance nearly in profile to where she sat, stood Erik.

Weak with relief, Christine struggled to rise. Never taking her eyes from his tall, lean form, she approached him. He did not acknowledge her presence, but instead looked down at something he turned over in his hand.

Her eyes followed the direction of his, and she halted in stunned disbelief, the beat of her heart a wild, slow pounding within her breast. The moonlight glinted off what he held between fingers and thumb. She stared hard and moved forward, almost without realizing she did.

"What is that?" she whispered.

He glanced sideways at her, taking in her tousled appearance with one indifferent sweep of his eyes then returned his attention to his hand. "Could you not sleep?"

"That awful howling woke me. What is that?"

"Wolves."

She shivered at his low reply. "I thought it might be. What is that you're holding?" she asked a third time.

He turned to face her with deliberate regard then held the sparkling object out for her to see.

She swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. "May I?"

He nodded, and she took the ring from his fingers.

A collection of small diamonds, eleven to be precise – the largest in the middle slightly raised, ten smaller all around, a woman's ring – it hung from a strand of knotted leather, and swept clean any morsel of lingering doubt from her mind.

This man was no twin, his presence no coincidence. This was Erik. Eustace and the boy had been lying about his whereabouts in Paris two weeks ago, possibly to protect him. He, himself, admitted his memories were faulty due to the blackouts, so could have been uncertain of times and dates and not guilty of again deliberately deceiving her.

She looked up from the ring and beyond the mask into his eyes, shimmering a darker blue in the dim moonlight. She prayed to see something of her Angel there, the man she had barely come to know.

"How did you come by this?" she asked, willing her voice to remain steady, though both her hands trembled as she held the thin band.

"I have no recollection. I woke one morning, after my mind's journey into darkness, and that was around my neck. Is it yours?" he asked in curious surprise. "I assumed I had gained it on a raid."

She had never been partial to the size of the ostentatious ring, designed to flaunt wealth. She preferred her jewelry to possess a delicate simplicity, but that had not been her reason for giving this ring to Erik.

She studied the cluster of diamonds one last time then handed it back to its rightful owner. "No, it's not mine. It's much too flashy for my tastes."

He nodded softly. "It is not without 'flash' as you say, but when I hold it, there is something about it that is…reassuring. It gives me a sense of calm." Instantly his expression went guarded. "That must sound foolish to you."

"No," she said very softly, willing herself not to cry. In the giving of it, she had meant it as a little piece of herself. Even perhaps, a promise, though she did not acknowledge that purpose at the time. "So it is your good luck charm?"

"My… _what_?"

"You know, something you keep with you for good fortune."

"A talisman," he said with a slight nod, slipping the ring back over his head and into his shirt. "Mayhap it is that."

"Why would you not sing?"

The words slipped out before she could stop them, the need for him to know who he truly was burning painfully through her, the wish to jolt him into remembering as vital as the blood that pounded through her veins.

He seemed taken aback by the question and narrowed his eyes. "Why is it so important to you?"

"You ask to hear my song, but will not return the favor? Where is the fair play in that?

"Ah, but you have said so yourself, damoiselle – you are a singer. It is the profession you chose and that which by people know you. It is expected of you to sing."

She floundered for an answer to such inane logic.

"I have never met anyone who refused to sing. Music has been my life, from the time I was a little girl and sang to my Papa's violin. When I was sad and needed comfort, when I was joyful, in celebration, in distress – no matter the occasion, music has always been there for me to hold on to and possess…"

He lifted his brow high at her impassioned speech, and she threw her arms wide.

"It's only a song for pity's sake!"

He stared at her as if he wasn't sure quite how to answer or what she expected of him.

"And you wish for me to join my voice with the wolves?"

A howl in the distance split the quiet again, as if in protest.

At his dry question, she shook her head in weary disgust.

"Oh, never mind. I don't know what it is I wish for…"

"That is a lie." His whisper-soft words made her heart again beat a little faster, as did the hand he lifted to smooth back the messy curls from her face where the breeze tossed them. He tucked them behind one ear. "Something tells me, Christine Daae, you know precisely what you want."

She held a breath, unable to deny it.

He looked her over, from slippered feet to uplifted face, then took hold of her arm, walking back with her to the camp. "We must draw near to the fire. The beasts will not trouble us there."

"You think they'll come?" she whispered, his reminder of their feral nature again causing concern.

"I have no doubt. They will circle and lie in wait, but will not approach with the presence of the firelight." He looked at her once they reached the fur pelts. "Rest easy, damoiselle. I will let no harm come to you."

His voice soothed, his eyes steady, and she believed him. God help her, had always believed him. No matter that he long deceived her about his identity as an angel, he never once failed her in his protection. Joseph Buquet was proof of that, though her Angel's method of murder had appalled her. She had caught the loathsome stagehand watching her disrobe from twin peepholes in the wall of her dressing room, and from his lewd comments when she angrily confronted him, strongly sensed he had something more sinister in mind. Her mistake had been to share that encounter with Erik, though she could not truthfully say she wasn't relieved Buquet was no longer a hindrance to avoid.

"And you?" she asked. "Do you not also need sleep?"

"I am accustomed to little slumber. You need not be concerned about me."

He may be accustomed to it, but that failed to mean he did not require it. "What of the others?" She wondered at their absence. "Are they off hunting again?"

"I sent them on an errand. Go to sleep, Christine. I will keep watch, and tomorrow you will again be with your friends at your Opera House."

She settled into the furs, but for a long time did not close her eyes against the image of him, sitting before the fire and stirring it with a stick, his sword absent of its scabbard and lying within easy reach on the ground.

 _Your friends, too, Erik, at least one of them. And hopefully tomorrow, you'll remember that._

 **xXx**

A hand on her shoulder shook her awake.

"Ten more minutes, Meg…" Christine groggily muttered.

"It is time to rise, damoiselle."

At the rich, familiar voice, she opened her eyes, blinking the film from them. At first she assumed she still lay in the depths of slumber. Erik crouched above her, his appearance unlike she had ever seen him, the mask gone. In its place he had tied a scrap of burlap to cover half his face and wore a cloak of coarse brown cloth with a large hood. With the bristle of shadow that lined his jaw, he resembled a beggar from an old opera. Or perhaps a monk.

"Erik…?" she asked, her mind still dulled with sleep to know better. The harsh lines appearing near his mouth instantly informed her of her error.

"No, damoiselle. Le Masque – or, as you would call me, Phantom."

"I'm sorry. I thought I was still dreaming."

Her mumbled apology did nothing to erase the hard set of his jaw.

"We must leave," he ordered. "The time is upon us."

Christine struggled to rise. He hesitated then held out his hand. She looked at him, trying to gauge his mood and finding it impossible to decipher, then clasped her palm to his, accepting his aid.

"Why are you dressed like that?" She asked the question most prominent in her mind.

"A disguise we must implement before entering Paris."

"We?"

He motioned beyond her. She turned to see a wagon stacked with myriad straw baskets. He quickly strode toward the conveyance and she followed, watching as he pulled out a similar robe and handed it to her.

"You must wear this. We want to attract as little attention as possible."

Christine hardly thought that wearing monk's clothing would do that on the elegant boulevards of Paris, but at the warning light in his one exposed eye she did not argue and took the scratchy robe. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the faint odor of manure and sweat coming from the cloth though a hurried inspection showed that nothing foul spotted it.

"I apologize, but it was all my men were able to procure."

She looked around, noting their absence, and he added, "They rode ahead."

"And this is really necessary?" she asked, hoping he would relent and allow her to resume their journey without the disguise.

"With your rare beauty to turn every head our way, yes, this is necessary."

She flushed with warmth at the offhand compliment delivered so sternly, and almost felt he expected an apology for the way God made her. A foolish thought, she chided herself. A great deal must weigh heavy on his mind to put him in such a boorish mood.

Given no recourse but to wear the foul thing, Christine frowned and slipped it over her clothing. He moved to wrap the belt firmly around her waist - stared at the change made, as she did, noting the curves of her breasts and hips were made more prominent - and with his hands still holding the sash just as quickly untied it, throwing it to the ground.

"Better that those who look are left in doubt as to your gender," he offered in careless explanation.

With a frown, she nodded, her wrists and throat beginning to itch where the coarse wool brushed skin. He was a master of disguises, so should know the extent of what was needed, but oh how she could not wait to be rid of the wretched thing!

Soon they were on their way, by wagon this time, pulled by a tired looking mule, and Christine wondered what had happened to Hades. One glance at the Phantom's dour expression, and she decided she didn't need to know. Attempting to ignore the tension coiled tight between them she allowed her mind to wander to the diverse chirruping of morning birdsong.

An eternity seemed to pass before Christine caught sight of colored rooftops through the trees, and she sat up on the bench seat, craning to see. She frowned as they broke from the dense wood and drew nearer to the bridge. True, she had not entered Paris from a distance, not that she could remember as she'd been an orphan of six at the time, and she and Raoul had left its boundaries by night, in a closed carriage, her tears warping any last view of the city she might have taken.

But something seemed different somehow…wrong, all wrong. She had not recalled so many rooftops being conical and had thought there were more domes in the architecture, _any_ domes...

"I should tell you, I will not be taking you to your Opera House directly."

Erik's voice cut into her thoughts like a knife, both the unexpectedness of it and the words causing her to turn to him in alarm and put aside her first view of the city.

"May I know why?" She asked.

"I have a meeting to attend, and my men were slow to return with the wagon. It is nearing the noon hour. Later, upon my return, I will accompany you then." He glanced her way, his voice softening a fraction to the silken tones she preferred. "You must be hungry, and I apologize for not taking time to break the fast. We will take refuge at the home of my friend and find a meal there."

After seeing him in the company of his men it should offer no surprise that he spoke of having a friend. Still, this version of Erik was so changed from the Erik of old who shunned all social interaction…and yet, so much the same, since he did not invite others' company, only tolerated it, from what she'd seen in the six days she had been his willing captive.

"Is this wagon stolen?" she asked. "Is that what your men were doing last night?"

"Merely borrowed. It shall be returned once I no longer have need of it."

He stared at her as she watched him, his riveting eyes making a slow perusal of her face before he looked sharply away. "You must pull that hood over your head so no one will see, and try to hide that wild spill of curls if possible."

Distractedly she obeyed, her heart hammering though she was not entirely certain of the cause. Fear of his capture, yes, the nearness of his proximity, but there was more. She took a few deep breaths for calm.

Unfortunately, the hood also impaired her range of vision to see only what lay directly ahead.

Irritated, she scratched the side of her neck and then her wrists where they harshly tickled. He must be mad if he thought she would wear this horrid costume indefinitely.

The wagon creaked slowly onward, the wheels sucking through mud, and she heard the sound of other carts and horses, amid the stir of people bustling to and fro. A short time later two men darted across the road, temporarily coming into her line of vision. Behind them, the cathedral of Notre Dame appeared in the distance, and again she was struck by something being…wrong. She lifted her head sharply and craned to look around, at the buildings, at the people, several who also looked curiously at her. The hood fell unnoticed to her shoulders.

"For God's sake, put that hood on and keep your head _down!"_

At Erik's terse order, Christine dazedly complied, though her heart and thoughts raced pell-mell in baffled disbelief of what she'd seen. She clutched the edge of the narrow bench hard enough to cause pain and force herself to remain aware, all the while questioning her own sanity.

 **xXx**

 **A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :) Things are about to get a wee bit wild...are you ready? ;-)  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback! :) This is the longest chapter yet to those who crave quantity (I worked hard for quality but it's only been looked at by me.) If you like, please review. …**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **Chapter X**

The Phantom kept a sharp eye on his surroundings for anything amiss as the wagon rumbled through the congested streets of Paris.

The ragged disguise and his new moniker should be enough to shield them from his enemies during his brief stay, though he did not foresee trouble. He had purposely kept all plans secret, his band of men only having been informed in the hour before he left Brittany.

He looked toward his traveling companion, grateful to note she kept her head low and fully covered. Her knuckles showed white where she gripped the seat in a painful grip, and he wondered as to the latest cause of her upset.

Himself, no doubt, and he frowned in remorse at how brusque he'd been with her during their journey. His nerves were stretched taut with this imminent meeting in the reviled city from which he had remained hidden, and with the constant allure of her presence. Nor had his wretched misery decreased to hear her call him by that name again.

It should not matter. It _did_ not matter.

A small boy ran up to the wagon. "Monsieur, you have baskets for sale?"

The Phantom scowled at the child, who retreated a few intimidated steps. Resolved not to let anything with regard to Mademoiselle Daae **_matter_** to him, the Phantom continued to guide the mule, at last approaching their destination.

"We have arrived," he announced. "Through that door, we will find refuge."

He stepped down from the wagon, tying the reins to a post then strode to Christine's side. When she made no move to descend, he battled his impatience and offered his hand up to her.

The hood jerked, lifting a fraction, and she stared at his outstretched palm before slowly turning to face him. What struck him more than the pale tinge of her skin, the usual rose of her cheeks absent, was the desperate search of his one unconcealed eye with her stricken ones.

"Christine…?"

The gentleness of her name on his tongue made her blink, as if she was coming out of a deep trance, and he watched the anxiety ease from her expression.

"Yes." Her response came quiet as she folded her hand into his.

Once she stood before him, he made to move his hand from hers, surprised when she held to him tightly, desperately. Another glance at her face, and he realized whatever fear had her bound had not fully dissolved. A surge of warmth struck him, an intense affinity. Before she crossed into his life, no one sought him for comfort, no one tried, wanting little to do with the monster.

"You have nothing of which to be frightened. I shall take you to your friends tonight."

She nodded passively, and keeping his hand in hers they moved from strong daylight into a darkened chamber lit by an open hearth, with few sconces of candles mounted against walls of grey stone. He felt her shock by the sudden jump of her arm and the clenching of her hand against his.

Perhaps he should have warned her.

Around a long table, men sat on stools, some of them with buxom women in varied degrees of undress on their laps. A young lad idly strummed the strings of a lute in a far corner. Small loaves of bread and goblets of wine were abundant, and those men not indulging in the repast of a meal were liberally immersed in corporal favors lavishly offered.

The Phantom spotted Eustace in intimate embrace with a plump woman, the back of her copper hair revealing her identity. In the corner, a red-faced Tobias looked trapped as a flaxen-haired wench at least a decade older draped herself against him from the back, her hand smoothing down his tunic. All around the chamber, the rise and lull of conversation was punctuated by the occasional shriek of laughter.

"A brothel," Christine whispered in horrified shock, releasing his hand forcefully. "You brought me to _a brothel_?"

"'The safest place," the Phantom tersely replied, noting their presence had been spotted.

The redhead untangled herself from Eustace and approached, Eustace doing likewise.

"So, this is the one," she said, eyeing Christine with haughty suspicion. She glared at the Phantom.

"I want no trouble, Le Masque."

"I assure you, Perrette, nor do I. Did Eustace not tell you the new name I have employed?"

"Oui, to be sure he did, _Monsieur Fantôme_. My man told me many things."

He narrowed his eyes. "All of which I trust you to keep well guarded."

"I never tell a soul what secrets I hear, leastways them that matter." She lifted her chins in affront that he should suggest otherwise though he recognized a flicker of apprehension in her bold gaze, which she then turned on Christine.

"I want no trouble from the likes of you, either, miss. Whatever you be, witch for a devil or spy for the de Chagny troll, it'll come out in the end, as all things must. But you'll not be bringing your dark doings into my establishment."

 **"** _My_ dark doings?" Christine replied incredulously.

Eustace cleared his throat. "Perrette, my love…"

The Phantom silenced his aide with a black scowl, angered that he should spread his foul suspicions regarding Christine to his woman. Eustace dropped his eyes to the floor covered in stale rushes.

"A room for the night, Perrette," the Phantom ordered brusquely. "One secluded from the others. I can pay well."

So saying he casually held up two fingers, flicking them together, where a gold coin magically appeared. Immediate interest lit her eyes.

"As ye will. This way then."

"Eustace, a word. Tobias," he directed, not once glancing his way as he drew up alongside the lad, "unhitch the wagon, and set the mule free. We will speak later."

"Aye, milord." The boy hurriedly darted away from the harlot's roaming hands. A bit put out, she gave Christine a cursory glance and transferred her attention to the Phantom.

"No," he said with finality never breaking stride.

With a pout, the prostitute dropped her hand from his shoulder where she had slipped it as he took the stairs with Christine. At the fifth flight, Perrette led them down a narrow hallway, the muffled sounds coming from within a few of the enclosed chambers leaving no doubt what the thin curtains screened. Perrette took them to the end of the corridor and a room there. The Phantom took swift inventory and noted with approval the nearby doorway that led to a back staircase, a quick method of escape if needed.

He motioned Christine inside the minuscule chamber, lifting his brows at her icy glare as she swept past him, relieved when she did not refuse.

Letting the curtain drop back into place, he handed Perrette another gold coin. "Bring bread, cheese, wine, and be quick about it."

"I'll have one of the girls see to it straightaway, monsieur." She cast an uncertain glance at Eustace before trundling away.

"You should not have told her," the Phantom wasted no time in expressing his disapproval.

"I cannot keep a thing from her. I swear that woman can see clear down to my soul. She knew I was upset the moment I walked through the door." He lowered his voice. "De Chagny's wench will cause nothing but trouble. God's teeth, why did you bring her _here_? I thought your plan was first to take her to _her_ home."

"Careful, Eustace." The Phantom clenched his jaw. "You will say nothing further about Mademoiselle Daae. Has our contact left instructions where to meet?"

"He has. At the shop of the paper merchant Thibault, on the Rue de la chaussée Saint-Honoré."

"Near the Seine," he mused.

"Aye. We're to ask for Roget."

"I shall go alone," the Phantom corrected.

"Nay, milord," Eustace argued swiftly. "'Tis far too dangerous!"

"I am able to handle this." He held up his hand to stave off another anxious refusal. "Enough. Do not test my patience and anger me further. I have other work for you."

The Phantom explained what more he wanted, sending his reluctant aide to do his bidding, then pulled the faded red drape aside and entered the chamber.

Christine whirled around. The next moment a bundle of coarse cloth struck him hard in the face. Taken aback, he grabbed the woolen missile before it could fall to the floorboards and stared at the castoff robe she had hurled at him.

"You brought me to **_a brothel_** , monsieur?" She repeated her words upon their entrance, outrage replacing her earlier shock. Her eyes sparked flame from the few candles lit, her hair a tangle of wild curls bouncing around her slim shoulders. Streaks of high color painted her cheekbones, replacing the earlier pallor of her features. She was enchanting.

" _Why_ would you do such a wicked thing?" she asked bitterly.

"Keep your voice down, damoiselle," he instructed, "lest someone hear."

"Oh, I do believe they're much too involved in their activities to hear!"

A deeper rose stained her cheeks and she pressed her hands to them in mortification of her hasty words. With a gasp, she spun to present her profile to him, her body trembling with anger.

Throwing the robe sideways to the ground, the Phantom covered the short distance and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Let me go," she insisted between clenched teeth.

He gave no heed to her vexed directive, instead giving her a little shake to fend off any imminent hysterics. "This is the safest place to wait," he stressed, keeping his voice low. "I would not have brought you otherwise."

"That woman hardly seems like she can be trusted. And she clearly _doesn't_ like you."

"Very few do," he retorted dryly. "I told you once there are few people I trust and those not entirely. _That woman_ , Perrette, is Eustace's wife, and he's one of those few. She will do nothing to cross him."

"His _wife_ ," she repeated in shock. "But – I was led to believe their kind never married. Those in that profession."

Her composure had resurfaced through her disbelief, and he released his hold, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Perrette and Eustace were wed before we crossed paths. She took on the position as a madame in this establishment years ago, to survive at a time she presumed her husband was dead. She despises me since it was I who kept him in hiding to trick the authorities into thinking our demise true. We were both wounded, and he nearly did die. Sadly, our ruse as walking ghosts did not last. Someone spotted and recognized us, and our return to mortality was imminent..."

A stir at the curtain admitted Isabel, a short, curvaceous brunette, who carried a trencher of bread and cheese and a bottle of wine, setting both at a crude table that seated one. Noticing she carried a single goblet, he ignored the oversight and waited for her to pour the refreshment.

"Will there be anything else, monsieur?" she asked, drawing close.

He shook his head, waving his fingers in a careless flourish for her to go. Alone again, he handed the goblet to Christine, who frowned at the doorway.

"No, thank you."

"It has been a long journey and you must be parched as well as famished. Take it."

Hesitant, she did, holding the goblet cupped between her hands. "You're so sure you can trust her? The woman, Perette. She behaves as though she's still angry with you."

He knew he should keep his distance, soon she would leave his life for good. Yet the impulse to touch her again was too great, and he lifted his hands to cover hers.

"I swore to you my protection. I would do nothing to jeopardize your life." Lifting one hand, he stroked a finger beneath her chin. "This truly is the best place within the city for us to hide, _belle jeune fille_. Whatever happens, you _will_ be safe."

Her expression softened at his vow, but when he mentioned the city, a flicker of unease clouded her eyes and her lower lip quivered. Almost without realizing it, he lifted a gentle thumb to trace its rosy fullness. She gasped, the warmth of her soft breath against his skin stirring his senses.

She retreated a step. He scowled, dropping his arm back to his side.

"Pardon, damoiselle, I should have known my touch would be unwanted."

She winced at his harsh words. "No – no, it's…not that."

He peered at her closely. She lowered her gaze to her wine and took a quick sip. He did likewise, drawing a long pull from the bottle.

Outside, in the corridor, a woman's lusty squeal distantly rent the air. Christine's face went crimson, and for the first time, the Phantom regretted bringing her to such a vulgar hideaway. She was a lady of refinement, in manner and speech. She did not belong in such a place.

He should have taken her to her Opera House, as had been the original plan, as he told Eustace last night. But when the time drew near that he must let her go, he found himself fumbling an excuse for delay and could not release her, could not part ways with her. Not yet, fool that he was. There remained time to deliver her before tonight's meeting, as she must surely have come to realize, and he wondered if she now resented him for his weakness that led to such deceit. Would she demand he take her home this minute?

"Tell me, Phantom," she began carefully, sinking to the stool by the table. "Did you notice anything strange about the city?"

"Strange?"

"Different."

"Such as?"

"Changed…?"

At his continued stare, she shook her head as if disgusted with herself. "Never mind. You said the left bank, but I don't think I've ever been to this part of Paris. Perhaps there exists a side of it I never knew." She sounded as if she did not fully believe her words but wished to. "I had no reason to travel any streets except for those near the Opera House, not often anyway, and am sadly oblivious to the lay of the land. Are we near the Seine? Perhaps the Rue Scribe?"

He saw no reason to withhold an answer. "The Seine is south of here, a short walk easily accomplished in a matter of minutes. The Rue Scribe is a street with which I am not familiar."

She nodded distantly, faint lines wrinkling her brow.

"I see."

"It means nothing." He suddenly wished to reassure her and see her smile again. "I am familiar only with a small section of Paris. The Rue Scribe is where your Opera House is located?"

"Yes."

"Rest easy, damoiselle. If you know the general area in which to direct me, I will lead you home."

Her smile was tepid at best, but she relaxed and gave a soft nod. When he again suggested she take sustenance, this time she did not refrain from breaking bread with him.

 **xXx**

Hidden away behind a worn curtain within the enclosed chamber, time passed while Christine leisurely supped with Erik as he waited for the appointed hour. She noticed how he pushed the burlap slightly aside to eat and wished he would dispose of the covering altogether. Yet she knew better than to suggest it, wanting to prolong the pleasant atmosphere that had settled between them.

He encouraged her to speak of her life before the Opera House, and she complied, gladly putting aside the host of questions that had increased with her arrival.

She spoke of Sweden and what very little she recalled of time spent there, of the two years she remembered singing on the streets with her beloved Papa, of that last summer at the seaside when his health failed him. Cautiously, she spoke of building sand castles with Raoul, her first true friend. Tears filmed her eyes as she recounted her Papa's painful demise, his deathbed promise to send an angel, and her subsequent arrival as an orphan to the Opera House. Out came her qualms about those who inhabited a world so strange and new to her, and her fears that she would never belong. Tears slowly slipped down her cheeks as, without meaning to, she found herself speaking of meeting her Angel of Music in the abandoned chapel and believing him to be her Papa's promise fulfilled.

"I didn't know at the time he was a man. A man who terrorized the Opera House," she whispered in remembered horror, the soft flicker of candlelight on the shadowed walls a fitting ambience to the story that became her life. "I truly believed he was an angel from heaven, come to bless me with his divine tutelage of music." The admission, once released, gave fount to an outpouring of words, and she found herself giving a concise account of her years as a pupil to her teacher. Admitting both the awe and the fear that were to her an everyday part of normalcy in a life most bizarre.

For the second time that night he came close, crouching down before her, on the bed where she now sat, and drew his fingertips along her jaw, brushing away the moisture that coated her cheeks with her stilted recounting of the terrible fight in the cemetery. There, she almost lost both men who'd come to compose her world: one who forced her into the light she often had been too blinded by deceit to see, the other who led her through a world of darkness into hidden truths she earnestly sought to know.

She looked at that man now. "My Angel taught me so much, about life, about myself. He showed me how to search deep within my soul, through the music, and bring out all of who I was meant to be."

"Yet he deceived you for years. Why would he do that?"

Yes, Erik, _why would_ you do that?

Such questions were futile as well as frustrating, and she searched her mind for a valid reason to give, what she presumed might be true, hoping against hope any of what she said might spark his memory.

"I know only that he had a terrible childhood, tragic. He was treated like an animal and kept in a cage at a traveling gypsy carnival. So many who knew him refused to see past his flaws and were cruel. They tried to strip him of his humanity, as a child and as a man." She swallowed hard. "He also wore a mask. I think I told you once before…"

His unmasked eye narrowed and his lips thinned, causing her to hurriedly add, "I – I never knew his name, not until the final hour of the final night we were together. He always went by titles and kept himself hidden, which only heightened the mystery."

"Why do you tell me these things?"

He moved away, clearly angry.

"No, I know. Your words have made it clear." He turned to her in accusation. "The night we met you mistook me for this man, the deceptive Angel of whom you speak. Is it not so? And now I see the cause. We share similar burdens, these wretched traits." He laughed bitterly. "Was he also deformed, his face cruelly twisted, cast out by family and society? Is that why he wore a mask?"

She could scarcely draw breath.

"Yes."

"Poor Christine, encumbered by monsters, destined twice to cross their paths and become their prey…"

"Not a monster," she mumbled. "And I'm not prey."

He ignored her. "What happened? What happened that final night to separate you from him? From _Erik_?"

The hateful manner in which he said his name made her gasp, the conversation taking another twist into the flagrantly bizarre. God, how she wanted to tell him, to _make_ him see truth, but fear once again stopped her.

"He – he had become dangerous, mad with hatred and jealousy. He murdered several within the opera," she whispered, noting his brow sail up at that, but no recognition lit his eye. "I, I was forced to help the gendarmes, to betray him, so as to safeguard the others." The admission tasted bitter in her mouth. "I didn't want to – God, I didn't want to! He was my teacher and my friend. But I could not stand by idle and do nothing, could not allow anyone else _to die_ …." Her words grew hoarse. "I allowed my fears to best me. Had I not acted so foolishly and made such an ill-thought out choice, taking part in such a wretched plan, perhaps that night would have ended differently."

Perhaps there would have been no end for them at all.

He regarded her solemnly. "It seems, from all you have told me, you had just cause."

His quiet words stirred her heart. He had no knowledge that the apology torn from her soul was directed to him, but she needed to say the difficult words, and this was the closest she may ever come to releasing the weight of her betrayal.

"I only wish I could tell him how very sorry I am. Despite everything, I never wanted to hurt him," she ended sadly. "I pleaded for God to give me courage that night, to show my Angel that he was not alone. I-I kissed him to assure him of my choice. I...I _loved him_." The first she had admitted it aloud, and she took a deep, tremulous breath before she continued. "But then I abandoned him when the mob was closing in. I can still hear their awful death chants echoing through the caverns."

Something flickered in his unmasked eye, and he grew very still, causing her heart to race.

"Youth or gender makes no difference to a hostile mob. You could have been killed for your involvement with the creature. It is wise you left when he told you to go."

Her pulse raced. She _never once_ mentioned his command for her to leave that night. It pierced her heart to hear him say the words, then engendering hopelessness, but now offering hope.

"I never said he did," she replied softly.

His solemn eyes held hers captive. "I would hope that he would, that he had the decency to let you go after all he had done to you."

"I didn't want to," she all but whispered.

"Then why did you?"

"I was…undone. Barely able to conceive the nightmare that was taking place. When I realized, when the shock began to fade once my escort led me outdoors, he wouldn't allow me to return to him."

Not after she returned the first time and Raoul noticed the absence of the ring on her finger.

He sneered. "The nobleman you spoke of, the one who lives outside of Paris."

"Yes." She told him only that Raoul had a title, not his family name.

"By that time, he said it was too late. That the mob would have finished him off. He had to forcefully carry me to his carriage for fear I would turn back."

Would that she had tried harder to break free!

"And do you still pine for the monster?"

At his demeaning words, hers grew fierce.

"He's **_not_** a monster - and if he was, it's only because that is what a superstitious and cruel society made him into!"

Christine sighed deeply, her ire evaporating as quickly as it emerged. Defending Erik to Erik was maddening, foolish, and hopelessly caught in this never-ending web of the absurd, she framed her words to remain true but not leave him with the idea that she could never care for another. If he knew the truth, that her heart was irrevocably bound to his, he wouldn't believe it. Nor did she have the courage to say it, for surely to convince him, she must then tell him why.

"I have deep regrets for what I've done. I always shall. And if he did survive that night, I wish for him nothing but that he would find true and lasting happiness."

He studied the wall. "Do you suspect he survived and is hiding at the Opera House? Is that your primary reason for wanting to go there?"

"I don't need to seek him out. I _know_ he's not there," she stated, her quiet voice ringing with sincerity. "Like I wish for Erik, I too want to find my own happiness and put the tragedies of the past forever behind me."

They stared at one another a breathless moment, the expression in his exposed eye as much a mystery as the man who stood across the room from her. What he might have answered in reply, she never was to discover.

"Milord," Eustace's voice came from the opposite side of the curtain.

Quickly the Phantom left the chamber to join his aide, and Christine slapped the bed near her hip in frustration. Just when they were making progress, something always happened to disturb the peace.

x

With no clock to mark the minutes and no window to see the sun's progress, and not a blessed thing to do to keep herself occupied, Christine replayed the events of past weeks.

She idly stared at the table and the odd little lantern there, a wick from the end spout yielding a steady flame. A genie lamp Meg once called a similar prop found in an old storeroom. Since Erik had brought her to this den of iniquity, Christine had seen torches, firelight, and candles, but found it odd there was not one kerosene lamp in sight.

Perhaps such establishments did not use them and preferred baser methods of lighting, a match to the crude mannerisms of those residing within. She winced at the thought of what her Papa would think to know his daughter took shelter in a brothel, though sometimes, the theater had been its own house of ill repute.

Christine understood there was no alternative but to stay. Still it did not dispel the prickle of unease that niggled into her mind, already greatly disturbed by their arrival into the city and what she'd briefly seen: Parisians, in simple costume, like peasants. Buildings that seemed taller. Streets no longer wide but narrow and unpaved. But, as she told Erik, she never visited all of the city to know what to expect, and especially the poor sections. Raoul steered clear of them, and the shoppes and boutiques where she spent her well-earned francs were located along the wide boulevard. Erik had seen nothing out of the ordinary, behaving as though all was normal. She must have been imagining things, her eyes playing tricks on her, brought on by the heat of the glaring sun and the weariness from the long journey, all of it creating a false illusion.

A stir at the curtain, and the prominent subject of all her thoughts stepped inside. Once again she was stunned by his changed appearance – shod head to toe in black, his full mask once more in place, with a long black cloak to finish the effect. He reminded her so much of her Phantom, that for a moment she thought he remembered.

He took in her wide eyes and open mouth. "My appointment takes place once night has fallen. I must blend into the shadows and travel by foot," he explained his change of clothing while pouring more wine into the discarded goblet, swirling its contents, and drinking from that.

Earlier, when he indulged from the bottle and allowed her full use of the goblet, even then he had done so with a genteel poise absent in other men. It was a trait that always fascinated her – his fluid grace that thinly veiled an intensity of caged power. To see that power unleashed in full had horrified her, but even then, his every movement had been smooth and supple, as if choreographed for a deadly ballet.

She barely nodded a response, struck anew by his impressive and imposing presence. He was not a large man, his form trim and muscular, not massive. But with his towering height, long limbs, and breadth of shoulder he seemed to swallow the tiny chamber.

"You should get some rest," he said gently then left, as quickly as he had come.

The room regained its dreary presence, appearing duller than before, as if he'd taken with him what little life it contained. With nothing else to do, Christine decided to follow his advice and lay down on the pallet.

But a feat like sleep proved impossible in these surroundings, and Christine soon grimaced at the sound of voices, not as distant as she would prefer.

"Tell me, Anton, are you really one of _his_ men?" a woman purred, her voice loud enough that it sounded as if it came from the cubicle directly across from Christine's.

Clearly Erik's demand for solitude was being ignored.

"You doubt me?"

"'Tis only that you're so young." There came the sound of a wet kiss.

"I must go."

"But we've barely grown acquainted."

"I told you I have precious little time, ma belle. Pierre will be looking for me." The man's words were followed by the quick rustle of material.

"Your friend was well into his cups when last I saw him. Here, let me do that."

"Tonight is important to my Lord de Chagny. I am new to his employ. I cannot fail him by disobeying orders my first week!"

Christine sat up swiftly and stared with horror at the curtain.

"Why did you come then, if only to leave so soon?" the girl said, a pout in her voice.

"My lord gave orders to search this part of the city for the criminals, and that includes the brothel. What are you doing?"

"One last time, Anton, let me show you the many favors I can give."

"Non, I cannot. The trap is set." His voice grew weak. "Tonight marks the capture of the masked villain. I must do my part… _Gadzooks, wench, you are evil._ "

"You truly want me to stop?"

Christine's face burned at his hoarse groan accompanied by the harlot's triumphant laugh and other immodest sounds made, fueling her imagination even as she wished to childishly clap her hands over her ears. No matter that Madame Giry zealously tried to protect young eyes, sometimes turning a dim corner or entering an allegedly empty room had given the innocent young Christine a candid education into private moments between lewd cast and crew members that could never be unseen. Once she grew older, Christine learned to ignore anything stumbled upon, though at times, in her bed, she couldn't help dwell on those brief displays of carnal lust, and more so after meeting her teacher in the flesh.

 _Dear God - Erik!_

She could no longer distinguish the couple's murmured words, nor did she need to. She had heard enough.

Donning the repulsive woolen disguise and wishing for her cloak she assumed to be still in the wagon, she peeked into the corridor, grateful to find it empty. She hastened down the narrow back stairs that led into a large kitchen, also empty.

Not wishing to test her luck in the main room and seek out those who despised her, she hurried past a row of crates to the door that must lead outside, certain he would have conformed to character and slipped out the back.

It would not budge.

"Ye'll find it locked. The madame does not wish to tempt her customers into leaving without paying."

Christine whirled to see the prostitute who earlier tried to entice her Phantom, her arms crossed as she leaned indolently with her shoulder against the wall.

"Erik – Le Masque - _the Phantom,"_ she corrected again, recalling his new preference for the name. "Has he left yet?"

"And if he has?"

"Tell Madame Perrette that the Vicomte's men are here. _Please_ ," she begged when the girl remained fixed against the wall. "I must try and find the Phantom."

"Her man says you're a witch and a spy."

Christine quelled the insane urge to laugh. So, now she was accused of both.

"If I was, do you think I would issue _a warning_? Do you think I would care what happens to him?"

The brunette appeared to consider, her haggard countenance softening a degree. She moved to collect an iron key from where it lay hidden behind a loose brick. Slipping it in the lock, she opened the door.

"Isabel! Where is the lusty wench? I am in sore need of her comforts…"

The woman looked over her shoulder in disgust, then back at Christine.

"Three streets down, twice left, once right, then left again. You'll arrive there swifter. And take this." She handed her one of two lit torches in the room.

Christine took it though she doubted her need of it. "Why are you now helping me?" she asked suspiciously.

"Isabel?!"

"I must go."

The door slammed shut in Christine's face. She blinked in shock, but did not remain immobile for long as the need to warn Erik sharpened in her mind. Her foolish capitulation to Raoul's plan with the gendarmes had nearly led to Erik's demise. She must do all she could to ensure this new plan failed! Raoul must have discovered that Erik escaped the mob's retribution and that she was with him, again striving to entrap the Phantom, to _murder_ him and take her back.

If she lost him again, this time it might destroy her.

Whirling around, she looked out over the dark city.

Dark…

Why had the lamplighters not yet attended to their nightly duty?

Her breaths came faster as she walked swiftly onward, into the oppressive blackness, the buildings that towered on either side dim silhouettes barely seen.

Three streets – Isabel said three, and coming to the first intersection, Christine searched the area for a street sign, hoping to find a familiar landmark. From overhearing Erik's meeting with Eustace, she knew where the meeting would be held, the Rue de la chaussée Saint-Honoré, had heard the name before.

She ran to the next intersection, the niggling apprehension of earlier returning, increasing…

No blue metal signs hung posted anywhere.

Nor did any tall iron lampposts flank the streets…streets that were little more than narrow ditches hollowed out in the middle, the awful stench proving that more than water lay within the furrowed earth.

Wild-eyed, she ran to the third street, this time swinging her torch in a wide arc to see better. She found what she was looking for – carved into the stone wall at the edge of a building, where the name of a street should _not_ be.

Breathing heavily from her mad run and a sense of horrified disbelief to _recognize_ the name of the street where she stood, to understand that she was not in an unknown part of the city never visited, she could barely conceive what had happened.

 _Was this all some sort of wretched nightmare?_

Running footsteps had her spin about in alarm, take a few shaky steps backward.

"Milady!"

Tobias's face manifested from the gloom. He raced up to her and caught hold of her wrist. Before she understood his intent, he snatched the torch from her hand and doused it in a large puddle of water.

"What are you doing?" he asked his voice low but frantic. "Are you mad?!"

Christine slowly blinked, his assessment a sure reality.

"Come – we must get you back before he learns you're missing."

His words spurred her to the very real and current danger.

"The Phantom's in trouble. Tonight's a trap! The Vicomte's men are at the brothel - I overheard one of them talking."

Concern lit his eyes, but he shook his head. "He ordered me to watch you and not let you out of my sight. I failed him once with regard to you. I'll not make the same mistake twice!"

"But don't you see?" she urged desperately as he tried to pull her along and she hung back, "if you come with me, you won't be disobeying his orders."

He stood, undecided.

"Dear God – don't you understand? _He's **in danger**!_ He's walking into a trap! I thought you were one of his few men to care about him." She snatched her arm from his hold. "Either stay or come with me, but _I'll_ _ **not**_ _fail him again!_ "

Whirling away, Christine raced down the next street.

 **xXx**

The Phantom wove between shadows near the moonlit wharf.

His heightened sense of vision allowed him to see better than most in the misty blue-black darkness, the night air pungent with the day's catch, and the everpresent stench of human and animal waste. Moonlight rippled in a wide fringe off the Seine's black waters, and in the distance stretched the wooden bridge he earlier crossed with Christine, now quiet from the bustle of merchants who daily congregated there.

The streets were deserted, the occasional pig or dog trotting past, no sane individual walking its unlit streets or wishing to meet up with the nightwatch. Only the refuse of Paris partook of the darkness that shielded their clandestine acts of perfidy and villainy.

And the Phantom was one of those defiled, his twisted excuse for a face stripping from him any choice to be noble. In deed and in fact.

At last finding the shop of the vendor who sold parchment, he gave three swift raps, waited, then issued two more. The door swung open, and a giant of a man, taller than the Phantom and twice as massive, glared at him through pale eyes ringed in folds of fat.

"I have a meeting with Roget," the Phantom announced.

The surly greeter stood back for him to enter, and the Phantom did so warily, taking swift inventory of his surroundings. The long narrow room held a table with wooden boxes. Slotted pigeonholes contained papers in the wall to the left. Further, a torch high on the wall displayed five large casks stacked in precarious fashion to the right, held in place by a netting of rope. He stopped beside it.

A short squat man stepped forward dressed in fine linen, declaring him the merchant. His husky aide stood behind him.

"You have the gold, Monsieur Fantôme?"

The Phantom pulled his cloak aside to exhibit the purse tied to his belt.

"You have the black powder?"

The merchant motioned behind him to the darkness.

The Phantom shook his head. "That will not do. I would see a demonstration of its use."

"I can do no such thing. The blast would take out the entire building. You have only to light a thin trail a long distance from the barrel to use it. The destructive force is greater than that of cannon fire."

"I was led to understand I would see the powder in action."

The Phantom spoke, all the while his eyes made a quick study around him. A lifetime of looking over his shoulder and dwelling in shadows attuned him to the nuances of danger and fashioned him into the leader he was. He could sense through behavior when words did not ring true. It was in the shift of the seller's eyes, the tense movement of his aide's arm, the sweat beading a brow, that the Phantom understood the true purpose for this nocturnal meeting.

A flash of metal in the darkness, barely discernible, was all the impetus needed.

Swiftly drawing his sword he cut the main rope holding the barrels. They fell with a horrendous crash and rolled toward the men, successfully impeding their movements. Soldiers appeared out of nowhere – the Phantom counted three – closing in. He cut down the first to reach him and sped for the door, wrenching it open. The giant lumbered behind, and the Phantom spun around and kicked the door inward, hitting the oaf in the face. He grabbed his bulbous nose from which blood poured and let out an enraged howl as the Phantom raced into the street, the two remaining soldiers in swift pursuit. Grimly knowing he had no choice but to engage in a battle to the death, he whirled to face them.

 **xXx**

The faint glow of the moon did little to light the narrow path before Christine, and she almost missed the next turn. She had closed her mind to what made no sense, desperate to reach Erik. Mud squished in her slippers that stuck to the slippery ground, slowing her progress. At least Tobias no longer attempted to detain her, following behind. The trickle of water met her ears, and she realized they must be nearing the Seine.

The boy cried out, followed by a loud thump and a scuffle.

"RUN!" he shouted.

Before Christine could respond, a brutal hand clamped around her arm, yanking her backward, and she fell hard to the ground. Stars flashed before her, her head jarred with the blow. A heavy weight pounced atop her, grabbing handfuls of her woolen robe.

She screamed.

"What's this?" the gruff voice above said, pulling away her hood. Dark eyes leered at her. His fetid breath made her want to retch. "A woman in monk's garb? And comely at that!"

To her horror, she felt both robe and gown wrenched up, his callused hand rough above her bare knee.

"We got what we wanted," another man said, "let's go."

"Not before I have me some sport…" her attacker grunted, dragging up his tunic.

Christine screamed again, a sharp, terrified, piercing wail. He did not seem alarmed by the ruckus she made, too intent on his horrific goal, and she feared all was in vain. Finding her hands suddenly freed as he struggled to loose himself, she painted his face in blood, dragging her nails across bearded skin and digging her thumbs into his eyes.

He howled in pain, falling back, and she took the advantage, pushing him away with all her might. She scrambled to stand, barely aware that Tobias was now fighting the other man with his dagger. Her feet were bare, her slippers gone.

"RUN, MILADY!"

She had no need to be warned twice. Lifting the hem of her skirts to her knees Christine employed every ounce of strength, sobbing with her efforts and paying no heed to the pain that throbbed throughout her entire body.

From out of the sea of darkness ahead, a tall black figure emerged, the grey mist parting to let him pass, his pace determined and ruthless.

With a heartfelt sob, Christine covered the distance between them and hurled herself into the safety of his hard embrace, clutching the edges of his cloak in a death grip. He held her close a short moment then forcefully set her behind him.

In mute horror, she heard the deadly ring of steel as the Phantom withdrew his sword, noting the blood that already streaked it. Any terror for his safety was short-lived. Her attacker had no chance, his wild stab with a dagger coming short of the mark as the Phantom ducked and viciously swung his blade. A long ribbon of black glistened against the fiend's tunic as he dropped to his knees and fell face-down into a puddle of mud.

Turning to Christine, the Phantom barely caught her with one arm as she sank limply to the ground.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: I know much of this doesn't make sense yet, but I won't keep you in the dark much longer, as I have Christine, and you will understand in time. ;-) ...Those still with me (I know the twists of my mind can get somewhat bizarre) thanks again for reviewing! :)  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So glad to see there's still interest in this bizarre little tale! :) Thank you so much for the reviews! ... Are you ready…? ;-)**

* * *

 **XI**

The Phantom stared in stunned horror at the insensible woman held draped over one arm, then looked toward the fallen fiend who'd been chasing her with a dagger. It appeared she was not injured, aside from a bruise near her temple, though he could not be certain.

The wretched fiend who had hunted her would never again rise to ensnare another.

"What in bloody hell happened?" he snapped quietly as Tobias ran up to join them, his lip bleeding, but his appearance otherwise intact. "What is the Lady Daae doing roaming the streets when I ordered you to watch her?"

He thrust the handle of his sword toward the boy to take, then slipped his freed hand beneath Christine's hips, lifting her fully into his arms.

"We were attacked, milord," Tobias stated, bending to claim the dagger the brute no longer had use for. "They sought to rob us. His friend jumped me, but I had the last of it." He nodded with satisfaction toward a distant body lying near the ditch.

"But why is **_she_** **_here_**? Never mind." This was no place to hold a discussion. "We will speak further upon our return."

The Phantom strode quickly in the direction of the brothel.

"The Vicomte's men are at Madame Perrette's – looking for you," Tobias said breathlessly as he rushed up beside him. "Milady told me." The boy nodded to the damsel. "She spoke of a trap and came to warn you. Took the back stairs down to the kitchen. I did not realize until I saw Isabel come from there and spoke with her. I followed Milady."

"Followed," the Phantom repeated derisively. " _But_ _you did not try and STOP her?_ "

"I did, milord, but she was very fierce – said she would not fail you again."

The Phantom abruptly halted and glanced at Christine's still face, astonished that she would put herself at such great risk for him. He knew she could be aggressive in striving to obtain what she desired, but what did she mean by such words? Did she not know the perils of walking these dark streets at night, the danger thrice magnified for a moral woman, even one so demurely robed? And for one so beautiful, the stakes loomed higher.

He had barely escaped with his life in his battle with the last soldier, who had been more skilled than his ill-fated companions, though that man too had found death's blow. Once it was done, the Phantom slipped away, wishing only to reunite with Christine, to see her lovely face, to hold her in his arms if she would allow it.

A scream in this part of the city at night was no rarity – but the second time he had heard it, a prolonged wail of terror and pain, he recognized that voice and cry – had _known_ its bearer, though he failed to understand how such a thing was possible. The only other time he heard her cry out in fear, the lake water had impeded her call for help and it came brief and garbled. This cry he'd heard before. It was the cry of terror from his dreams when the dark spells overtook him, and he had hastened toward the sound, it coming as no true surprise when Christine stumbled from the moonlight and into his arms.

The reason for the trap now made sense, the awareness of who was behind it.

And so, the Vicomte had followed him to Paris.

Damn his merciless hide.

How the fool uncovered the Phantom's plans, he could not fathom, but he could not dwell on such matters. He must concentrate on where to find safety in this thrice-damned city of darkness, with their enemies lying in wait at every turn.

He looked in grim desperation out over the dismal street toward the north and the silhouettes of buildings that towered high and close all around, their windows shuttered, firelight outlining the cracks of several. Nowhere would he be welcomed though. He looked behind, toward the south, and the Seine with its black, forbidding waters.

Where in blazes could he go? He wished for his mount but did not dare risk approaching the bridge where soldiers were sure to be guarding the entrance to the city. Alone, he might risk it, easily able to trick the fools with his voice and slip past them using the cloak of nighttime shadows. He could send Tobias to fetch Hades from the forest but could not very well stand here and wait for his return.

A place existed that no one knew but him, a place where he'd found solitude on occasion when he felt sorely pressed to hide. But even that was not a worthy solution. Of damp, and dark, and cold, it was unfit for a lady. She may not bear the pedigree of an aristocrat, but in deportment and speech she behaved as one nobly born.

He wracked his mind for a more suitable solution. On the sudden breath of a chill wind, it came to him, the least conceivable idea he could imagine. He almost laughed at the incongruity of it. A most peculiar event Eustace related to him years ago, a story that received notorious acclaim at the time and seemed unfeasible, though Eustace swore it to be true. The very idea to trust such an account and risk capture made the Phantom's mouth go dry, his tongue taste bitter - to go _there_. Surely he would be refused, surely he would be turned away, the soldiers immediately alerted to his location…

But if what Eustace believed _was_ true, if such a tale did once exist, then he had no option but to make the attempt. For Christine's welfare, he would do anything.

"Return to the brothel," he told Tobias. "Take care not to be seen. Tell Eustace to meet me tomorrow, at the last place he would think to find me."

"Milord?" the boy asked in confusion.

"Only do as I say."

The boy scurried off and the Phantom shifted his light burden in his arms to achieve a better hold in preparation for the long walk ahead.

"Rest easy, _ma belle fille_ ," he whispered, looking at her still face and closed eyes. "I will keep you safe."

Sometime later, after hurrying along many narrow streets and avoiding the moon bright areas, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, the Phantom approached the massive citadel of Notre-Dame. Breathless and wary, his muscles tight with pain, he glared with hatred up at the gothic twin towers, darkened against the moon from behind, at the whole of what this edifice represented, though his midsection fluttered with an odd sense of dread and anticipation combined.

"I seek sanctuary," he told the robed greeter who answered his pounding of the heavy wooden door. "I was told you would give it."

The cleric took one somber look at the panicked masked man cloaked in black, at the injured young woman lying insentient in his arms, and after a slight hesitation, opened the door wide for him to enter.

xXx

Dreams were transient, a swirling blackness devoid of warmth enticing her surrender. It would be so easy to slip into the placid coolness, to avoid those truths that awaited, thorny truths that made no sense, their tightly closed petals unable or unwilling to unfurl…but for one thing. His spoken voice, still and sensual. Soft and deep, like the brush of warm velvet against skin. His beautiful voice never lost the ability to reach her. For nearly all of one lifetime, it was all she trusted, all she clung to…

Christine's eyes fluttered open, her hand going to the damp cloth across her brow.

"Leave it."

His words came tender, but with an underlying current of anger she did not understand, nor did she wish to make the attempt with the debilitating manner in which her head throbbed.

Hearing footsteps scrape against stone, she turned her head slightly and watched his steady approach. He still wore his Phantom-like garb. Black hose, doublet and matching shirt, his black cloak billowing about his long legs.

"Erik."

He narrowed his eyes at the name but made none of his usual cutting remarks, and she was too weary to care if he took offense or not. Odd how she called him "Angel" their entire association, but upon discovering his true name, that is what tumbled from her lips without thought. Perhaps the cause was due to the last few years, when she found herself wishing in the most secret place of her heart that he was a man.

"Where are we?" she whispered, looking around at the room and the walls of soft ivory further enhanced by dim morning light that streamed from an open shutter of a window in the pale stone. There were no curtains to cover it, and a slight breeze blew inside, ruffling Erik's dark hair. The bed in which she lay was small and stark, the only other furniture a long low table against the wall that held a bronze candelabrum of unlit tapers, a book beside it.

"This is not the brothel."

He gave a grim chuckle of amusement, his eyes far from smiling. "No, you are correct in that assumption, damoiselle. I would deem _this_ _place_ in direct counterpoint to that of a brothel. I found it imperative that we seek sanctuary –"

"Sanctuary?" she interrupted in shock, floundering at his explanation. "We're in _a_ _church_?"

"- due to your childish behavior of running reckless through the streets in the dark night," he continued as if she'd not spoken. "So I came to this cathedral."

"Childish?" she repeated, now the one offended, the reason for her dreadful venture coming back to haunt her with a vengeance. She snatched the cloth from her head and pushed herself up to sit, wincing as pain sliced through her temple. " _Reckless?_ You ungrateful man, I was trying to save your life!"

"By putting yourself in certain peril?" he growled. "I told you to stay put."

"And it's a good thing I have a mind of my own! Who else was there to warn you of the soldiers? Of the trap they had waiting?"

The terror of the previous evening, the relief to see him blessedly alive and free from capture, and the irritation to hear his undeserved censure – all of it twisted together to stir her own heated agitation, and she did not mince words.

When she thought him a divine being, she never dared raise her voice to him, not once, and trembled in shame and terror if he should raise his. All that changed with his revelation of being mortal (no matter that she had long hoped for such a thing). Her hurt at his deceit and startling awareness of his flaws that were entirely human gradually abolished all meekness. Since the night of the Opera House fire, she confronted him absent of the awed reverence for an Angel that formerly had her quake in her shoes. She was still in awe of his genius and talent, but now saw him as a man, and in that sense, equal. He may be wiser and certainly more impressive and daunting, but he was flesh and blood, like Christine.

"You should have given the information to Eustace," he scolded. "You never should have ventured out alone."

"I was unaware Eustace had remained behind," she defended, "but I certainly wasn't going to go in search of him." Her cheeks blazed hot when she thought of the moral decadence she'd seen in the main chamber. "I felt I didn't have precious time to waste, and even if I did think to search him out and tell him, I highly doubt he would have believed me, given what he thinks I am and is so eager to tell others."

The Phantom flinched, also appearing displeased with his aide's conduct. He twice flexed his hand hanging at his side into a fist then released it. The restless action brought Christine's attention to his arm. Her eyes widened at the sight of the white tail of a bandage, the cloth wrapped above his elbow spotted with blood.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed softly, her vexation with him dissolving at once to see him wounded. She reached out, stopping short of touching him, fearful to make his pain worse. She dropped her hand back to the cot. "But how? That- that man. He never struck you with his blade."

The Phantom moved his injured arm so as to glance at it with indifference before responding. "This was the sum of what I gained from that damnable meeting and my escape from it. I've suffered worse."

She did not want to think about other harm done to him or the extent of what that entailed.

"So it _was_ a trap."

"It was. I discerned the truth from its commencement and acted accordingly."

"I swear I had nothing to do with it."

He lifted his brow. "I never accused you of being involved."

"Yes, you did – you were suspicious that Paris was a trap and I was the bait to lure you here."

He inclined his head in grave acknowledgement. "Then you have my most humble apology."

"You believe me?" she breathed faintly in surprise.

"I doubt that if you were working for the Vicomte you would so foolishly run headlong into danger to warn me."

Only he could bewilder her mind with his swift changes of mood, to extend heartfelt remorse and in the next instant sardonically scold her, like a lost "wandering" child, reminding her of her years in training with him.

She straightened her spine, sitting up taller.

"You _killed_ that man."

"Yes, more than one." He looked at her curiously. "Does that shock you?"

It shouldn't. He murdered Messieurs Buquet and Piangi at the Opera House, but both times she had been immersed in costume changes backstage and did not witness his horrific brand of vengeance. Later in his lair, from agonized words spoken, she realized he enacted such violence as a means of survival but in her distress accused him of a distorted soul. She had never actually seen someone die, until last night, and the brutal recollection made her stomach turn. That, and the Phantom's casual dismissal of murder.

"It was our lives or theirs," he added with a shrug when she gave no response. "I prefer it be theirs."

She could not argue with such an assessment, feeling the same, but wished the fatality of blood never need be spilled.

"And what of Tobias? Is the boy alright?"

"He suffered minor injuries which I'm sure Perrette's girls will soon make him forget."

Christine felt a blush rise at his offhand words. "But I thought – is it safe there?"

"Tobias will not be recognized. Perette will keep Eustace hidden away, of that you can be sure."

She looked up at him in appeal. "Please don't be angry with the boy. It wasn't his fault. He followed and tried to make me go back, but I broke free."

He shook his head in studied curiosity.

"Why would you take such a risk?"

"I had to. I-I feared they might kill you."

" _You_ could have been killed."

She shrugged slightly and looked down. A tense silence elapsed.

"Are you otherwise injured?" His voice came gentle in its demand, the voice of her Angel, and she shivered slightly to hear it. "Save for the knot on your head I could not discern if you were wounded, only the blood on your hands which did not appear to be your own. I did not search your person."

His face darkened with the admission and he averted his eyes in unease.

His behavior intrigued even as it reassured Christine that he truly cared and did not speak as a simple courtesy. She had never seen him act with such nervous reserve, especially since she'd come to be his captive, and suddenly she felt she understood.

"He did not despoil my virtue, though not for lack of trying," she said darkly, a moment's remembered terror causing her to tightly clench the blanket that covered her legs. "Other than being winded when he tackled me and striking my head, I'm alright."

She looked at her fingers curled in her lap, washed clean, the only traces left of the attack crescents of blood beneath her nails, two of them chipped and split.

"The blood isn't mine," she said with a grim little smile that slipped slowly away, leaving her frowning. Suddenly she felt an anxious desperation to rid herself of the filth and swiftly ran the damp cloth she'd tossed aside under each fingernail, trying not to tremble.

That man was dead now. That _fiend_ …

And his blood was on her hands, literally and figuratively.

"Christine…"

The Phantom's tender utterance of her name soothed the mounting unrest in her soul, and she looked up, her eyes locking with his. In them she saw an apology that touched her heart and made him again seem like her Angel.

"May I have some water?" She smiled faintly. "My throat is parched."

"I shall see to it."

He left the chamber, and Christine wearily leaned back against the wall and took inventory of her injuries. Besides her head, her hip ached but only felt bruised. She wiggled her toes beneath the blanket then pulled it back, noting that someone had cleaned the filth from her feet and calves as well as her hands and arms. The awful wool disguise and belt of silver links were also missing she realized suddenly.

A fresh wave of warmth rushed beneath her skin to realize her caregiver must have been Erik. She doubted a priest would touch a woman so intimately to administer care that wasn't urgent, and she was startled to realize any true embarrassment came from the thought that she wished she had been aware of Erik's hands upon her skin. Her mind flew back to the shocking encounter in the lake, when he had felt all of her bare flesh, and she so much of his, the pleasure of his touch crowding out the fear of nearly drowning…

She shut her eyes, not wishing to entertain such wicked memories when he would rejoin her at any moment. He had an uncanny way of looking at her as if reaching into her very soul, and would no doubt discern her every thought.

Soon, he would take her to the Opera House. Once his memory returned, as it surely must after he revisited the place and people that were home to him as well, she would somehow convince him to stay with her there. Madame Giry must know somewhere safe to hide – surely there existed more than one hidden passageway. Perhaps they could go underground again, for a time. No one would think to look in the cellars twice, not after more than two weeks had elapsed. His band of renegades could survive without him, they were grown men after all, and from what little Erik told her, a few wished to depose him as their leader. Let those foolish men rely on their own devices. They did not need Erik.

But she did.

She smiled at the memory of those relaxed hours before nightfall when they openly conversed in the confined room of the brothel. Clearly there _had_ been opportunity to take her to the Opera House, with time to spare. But she forgave him his little deception to know he must have wanted to spend those hours with her, and it took the edge off the hurt that his brooding distance of past days had caused.

Yet what if the return to the Opera House did not jolt his memory? What if that attempt also failed? And, dear God, what if Raoul continued his vengeful plot to destroy the man who had come to mean the world to her? Was, in fact, her world…

Her attention went to the rays of morning sun that streamed to the floor, and she felt a sudden desperate need to be enveloped by their warmth. Slipping from the cot, she padded on bare feet across the cold stones into the dancing motes of golden light. Her eyes fell shut as she reveled in the comfort of the sun's heat against her chilled flesh.

Moving to the window, she looked out…and went dead still.

Her breath froze to a halt, her heart not far behind. Suddenly it raced forward, pounding against her ribs as if it to break free. She stared hard. Closed her eyes, took a tremulous breath then opened them to stare again. Feeling lightheaded, she clutched the window ledge until the gritty stone scraped the pads of her fingers. The sting failed to rouse her from her horrified reverie…

She sensed Erik come up behind and turned to look at him, ignoring the chalice he held out to her. In the early sunlight his eyes shone more silver than blue and did not waver in their regard, but instead grew curious then impatient the longer she stared. His free hand lifted to his face, as if to ensure the mask was still there.

"Is something the matter?" he asked curtly.

"Matter…?" Christine repeated weakly, again glanced out the window to be sure, then back to Erik. "Tell me, please, what do you see out there?"

He looked at her oddly but directed his attention beyond her.

"Throngs of people cluttering the roads and going about their daily pathetic lives."

She shook her head in impatience. "Be more specific."

"Mostly men, I assume are clerics and students from the university judging by their state of dress. Several women and children. Horses, a pig or two –"

"No." Again she furiously shook her head. "What do you see in the square?"

He looked in that direction. "The usual crowd jeering," his tone was laced with grim disinterest. "Two boys throwing rotten food at the latest victim of the pillory –"

"The _pillory_. And – and you find nothing incredibly disturbing about that?"

Desperately she clung to what logic and sanity remained while she prayed for a response that would make sense. A look of understanding crossed his eyes.

"Damoiselle, the hand of justice is executed, whether merited or unmerited. It is a harsh and merciless world in which we live. After having spent a week in your company, I am aware that you decry any form of corporal punishment and find it distasteful. I do share your opinion when it comes to that particular monstrosity." He looked with disgust toward the platform that held the wooden restraint and the victim who stood bent at the waist, his head and wrists trapped within its confines. "I, too, have had the misfortune to suffer such punishment, at a pillory in Brittany when I was a lad…"

Horrified by his explanation that he delivered as calmly as if he spoke of something as inconsequential as a change in the weather, she stared, realizing he meant every startling word he said. Realizing her eyes and mind did not deceive her. This morning. Last night. Upon their arrival to Paris. Realizing what could scarcely be realized and certainly not understood.

"I must ask you a question you will think quite strange…"

At the hoarseness of her voice he frowned and again held out the goblet. A third time she shook her head in exasperation, the urgency to know overriding all else.

"What year is this?" A thread of nervous laughter escaped her tight throat, sounding slightly deranged. "Or perhaps I should ask instead – _what century?_ "

xXx

The Phantom carefully watched Christine. Her face was bleached of all color, her eyes huge dark pools, haunting in their beauty, pleading for something he failed to understand, her appearance much as she looked in the wagon upon their arrival to the brothel. She clung to the ledge with one hand, her knuckles white.

"What manner of question is that?" he scoffed mildly, hiding his concern. "Why would you ask something so absurd?"

"Please. Just tell me."

He narrowed his eyes in wary confusion, her soft beseeching words creating a peculiar ache in his chest to see her looking so lost, so helpless, but he decided to give her the answer for which she asked.

"It is the same as it was yesterday…"

"The same as it was…"

"1502."

"Fifteen _…_ " she breathed in stunned disbelief. " _The sixteenth bloody century?_ " she barely whispered, and for a moment he thought she might collapse.

He saw the flash of wildness in her eyes, the same he glimpsed the previous night.

"How is that even possible? How is it that you stand there and think this is all _perfectly_ _natural -_ and don't see how _impossible_ it has to be?"

She swayed and he lifted his arm, fearing he might need to catch her, but she caught herself and turned aside, moving slowly to stand by the bed while never taking her eyes off the floor. Her eyes flickered madly to and fro, as if she struggled within a whirlpool of emerging thoughts.

"It's just not possible, _not possible_ ," she repeated again and again, "and yet…" She sank to the bed, dropping like a stone. "…it must be true." Hugging herself, she shook her head, her eyes blank and staring at nothing.

Baffled by her behavior, the Phantom surrendered to his mounting concern and approached, dropping to one knee before her.

"Drink this." When she mutely shook her head, he pushed the goblet closer. "I insist. It's not the water you requested, only the wine I was able to find. It seems our host was called away to morning prayers."

She took the chalice, looking into the dark crimson liquid before taking a few large gulps. When she lowered the cup, more than half the wine was gone. Seeing how her hands trembled, he took the goblet and set it on the floor beside him.

She looked at him in awed bewilderment. "How is it that you don't see it too? How is it I am the only one to see that this _just. Isn't. Possible..._?"

"Perhaps if you care to explain your reasoning I would better be able to form a reply," he said quietly, wishing to keep her calm under the circumstances – which thoroughly escaped him.

She said nothing, only continued to stare into his eyes as though adrift. Wishing to provide what comfort he could, he stroked his fingertips lightly against her forearm. Her reaction was immediate. She unfolded her arms from around her waist, but before he could retract his touch, cynically thinking she was repelled by it, she grabbed his hand in both of hers, holding to him desperately, as if afraid he would slip away.

Her unexpected act and clear need of him touched a dark part of his soul, and wishing to reassure her, he spoke. "Circumstances being what they are, I was unable to fulfill my vow to you last night. However, I _will_ deliver you safely to your friends at the Opera House today. Once Eustace arrives, I will ask him to bring my horse…."

His words trailed away as she continued to stare at him blankly, as if she did not comprehend the meaning of such simple words, and then to his complete bafflement and utter consternation, her face fell.

"My friends," she said softly, tears glazing her eyes. "Madame Giry and Meg…they, they won't be there. The Opera House…" She gave another anxious laugh that ended on a sob and stared down at her hands gripping his. "…won't be there."

He pulled his brows together. "You said the wing in which they live wasn't destroyed. Why should you think…?"

"Not destroyed. Built. None of it has been built yet. It won't be. Not for many, many years. There's a bronze placard, in the foyer, with the date – _oh, my God_ …"

She made no sense, and his patience, never strong or enduring, was fast thinning out.

He gave her a little shake with his free hand to her shoulder. "Christine, what are you saying?"

"What am I saying? _What am I saying_ …?" She licked her lips nervously. "Only that, I don't understand how it happened, but…"

She looked up at him, her eyes beseeching him to believe.

"I seem to have fallen through time."

The words were ludicrous and childlike, her expression gravely sincere. He narrowed his eyes and pulled his hand away from hers, ignoring her soft whimper.

"What trickery is this?" he insisted.

She clutched at her skirts. "I realize I must sound like a madwoman – I cannot even conceive how any of this is possible, and if I were in your position, I would think I must be mad. But…" She licked her bottom lip again, dragging her teeth against it. "Somehow I have come to this century I don't belong to. And you… _You_ …"

Her words trailed away in frightened confusion and she shook her head.

"Pray tell, exactly what century do you think you belong to?" he asked warily.

If this was a trick, she was very convincing, though he could discern no purpose for its design. When first he took her captive, it might have made sense for her to play such foolish games, in the hope of gaining her release. But there was no longer any excuse for such deceit. Nor did he think it a game.

She looked at her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"The nineteenth."

Her whisper seemed to shake the air. A tense silence passed between them.

"I was born in the year 1854 to Gustave and Gerda Daae," she said quietly, "outside of Uppsala, in Sweden. My father and I came to France and later to Paris and the Opera House to find work there. After he died, Madame Giry took me in and gave me a home in the ballet dormitories. I became a dancer, later a singer. A singer of opera." She nodded sharply and looked up at him. "It all makes sense now, you see, why you've never even heard of one. The first opera doesn't take place until a century from now…"

"Enough." Swiftly he straightened to his feet. His heart lurched to see her eyes again glaze over with tears. "Enough," he said more softly.

"You don't believe me."

Her words came so despondent he was again sorely tempted to fall to his knees, this time to take her into his arms.

He strode to the window and stared out over the courtyard and the streets beyond, though if asked he would not be able to relate any of what he saw.

"I can hardly blame you," she added, "after all, why should you believe me? It's impossible. And yet…here I am."

"What you say defies logic," he said at last.

"I know."

He winced at her quiet capitulation. She did not beg him to believe her, did not persuade him, and that alone made him listen though he had no wish to hear such devastating words. Words that invited danger and death.

"You swore to me, since the night we first met," he put voice to his thoughts. "That you have no hand in sorcery or witchcraft – and yet you sit there now and profess such a heretical aberration?!"

He turned to regard her, noting the bewilderment that swept across her features.

"Of course," she said as if coming to a second startling discovery. "The stones. That must have been when it happened! The night Eustace found me and I came to you. There was a horrid storm, you see, and I lost all awareness. And then there was the chateau. I remember thinking upon my return how it looked different, and that all of you dressed – different – but I thought it was my imagination, the chateau, and the last, well, I thought you'd stolen costumes, just as you took things from the opera. Hells Bells, what else was I to think? My first thought wasn't – oh, I must have fallen through a rip in time – I mean, how _could_ it be when I never even knew such a possibility existed, never knew something so horribly fantastic could occur!"

She spoke rapidly, as if to herself and no longer to him, her hectic gaze fastened to the wall. He studied her in growing alarm, noting how she rubbed her temple as though it pained her.

The blow to her head must have addled her mind – yes, that was it. Surely that would account for her untenable claims. To suppose anything else taunted his own fragile sanity. Nor did he need ask to whom she referred when she spoke of stolen costumes, that much was clear. In time she would return to reason, she must! He could not tolerate the thought that madness ate away at Christine's mind. Nor did he wish to question why he so strongly cared.

Quietly he cleared his throat. "You must rest. If anyone should enter, tell no one of this. _No one_ , _Christine_. I must go."

Her head snapped up, her eyes panicked. "You're leaving?"

He gave a curt nod. "I will return anon. But for now…I must go."

Quickly he escaped her presence before he could once more be drawn close by the plea in her enormous brown eyes, the depths of which he felt he could easily fall into and never wish to resurface.

He needed time to distance himself from her alarming account that could in no way under the expansive blue heavens be true, sounding more like a story crafted from the fiery forges of hell. Much like the tale of her life with the Angel of Music, a demon who masqueraded as a man...

 _Angel of Music, you deceived me…I gave you my mind blindly!_

The Phantom halted in horror at the familiar words, spinning about to find the source, before he realized they had sung with forlorn sweetness into his mind.

 _Her_ sweetness.

Clapping his hands to his ears, he continued his trek.

God, he was going as mad as she!

Those who inhabited the building were thankfully at vespers, the servants busy with their tasks, and he moved about the hollow corridors unnoticed. His love of architecture and the desire to create, a secret aspiration no man knew about him, had the Phantom cast a favorable glance at the Corinthian columns of pale stone, at the many graceful statues of adulation, at the sheer beauty of the colossal rose window, an intricacy of stained glass that invited wonder - and never had he seen anything like the flying buttresses he glimpsed upon his arrival, a feat of both delicacy and strength. White ribs of graceful support that defied their seemingly fragile composition and held up one entire wall of the monolithic cathedral.

All of this on any other day would seize his rapt attention. Now, he could only blindly storm through the many ornate halls and chambers, a silent black wraith with his cloak floating and billowing about him, barely cognizant of his surroundings as he played over and over in his mind the unnerving conversation with Christine.

Mad? No, he did not think her mad. She displayed no signs of lunacy in the seven days he'd known her. Seven days that seemed a lifetime, in that he couldn't remember having _not_ known her. What started out as a burning desire to tup her had developed into much more than that. He could have seduced her at any time, as she lay next to him in his bed, alone at the lake or deep in the forest, but had instead surrendered to her wishes, giving heed to her spoken request.

He thought back to her reference to "costumes" and recalled his own bemusement with the outrageous gown she arrived in the night they met. A gown with a skirt shaped like a wide bell such as he'd never seen, her waist cinched in so small he could easily fit both hands around its tiny circumference and touch his fingertips, the neckline low and revealing, the fashion of the dress, in a word, bizarre, as had been that wire monstrosity the lake waters carried away with the dress, the construction of the strange undergarment resembling a bird cage. At the time, he thought her clothes the latest fashion of the capricious nobility of Paris, and later, when she admitted she wasn't nobly born, of the theater in which she performed. She often spoke words unfamiliar and phrases that made little sense and possessed a bold independence to her nature he'd never witnessed in a woman so young. She did not even seem to realize certain rules of the land existed and were meant to be followed to survive…

What was he thinking?! Those events of which she spoke were, as she adamantly stated, impossible. He knew witches existed, had been slave to one. But to fall through time, _centuries into the past_ …?

It was unheard of. Preposterous. Bizarre. And anyone to hear her talk would accuse her of insanity – or worse.

Grimly he acknowledged the danger she was in. The damned Vicomte's presence in Paris so soon after their own in all likelihood meant he was searching for his intended bride. He had surely discovered that she was Le Masque's captive and pursued his sworn enemy to reclaim her.

And what of the damsel? She expressed no desire to become de Chagny's wife, had been opposed to the idea – but what was that to him? Why should he care so strongly whom she did or did not marry?

If he were wise, he would leave her to her own devices and wash his hands clean of her, be rid of the additional danger she created and leave Paris with his men at first opportunity. He would see to it that she would not be consigned to the streets, of course, where he doubted she would last a week, nay, even a night! He would speak to the cleric who granted them sanctuary. Surely the man could find safe haven for the beautiful damsel. Perhaps the archdeacon, upon his return from his pilgrimage to visit the king, might give her a position in his household. She would be safe here as long as she never left these hallowed walls.

Or would she?

A strange pain filled his heart when he thought of Christine in peril with him gone and no one there to help her. Eustace assumed witchcraft was in effect, that she had placed the Phantom under an enchantment to be so obsessed with her, and he had begun to think his aide was not far from the truth…

If those who resided within this place of worship also thought her a witch, her doom was sealed.

It failed to matter. Enchantment or not, the damage was done and his course was set. He may be a fool, but he could never abandon her, could not bear the thought. This whole pathetic discourse he played out in his mind was moot. He _wanted_ her to be his…

Despite her alarming lapse from lucidity.

The Phantom frowned as he turned a corner, narrowly running into the path of a servant with a basket of linens. Quickly he ducked into an alcove with stairs and, his energy not sated, took them with a vengeance – what must be hundreds – exiting into a bell tower. Looking out over the city in miniature from such a height captured what breath remained, the wind up here sharp and cold, blowing his cloak out behind him like a dark banner of threat, in proclamation of its bearer.

He could not leave Christine, here or anywhere else. By her admission, she had no one and nowhere to go.

If she said what she mustn't, and the wrong person was to overhear, she could be burned as a witch.

If left unprotected and the brutal Vicomte was to find and seize her, that would be a fate akin to slow death.

Each direction he looked, her life was in certain peril.

The knowledge of what must be done to ensure her wellbeing came to him suddenly, and with sober detachment, the Phantom calmed and accepted this latest twist to their fate.

Christine, on the other hand, might prove difficult to convince.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: Hmmm… I wonder what the Phantom has planned? ;-) I researched a long time before deciding on this century, and this precise time – I wanted it to be as close to the late middle ages as possible, and before the Renaissance period really kicked in. There are other reasons I chose this specific time, which will become apparent as story progresses. ;-) …and the mystery of Erik (I love how some of you still aren't sure if it's him) - will be cleared up a few chapters from now. :)  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) They are much appreciated…I researched site after site and could find next to nothing about the possibility of living arrangements as I have them, if they could or did exist, even temporarily. But with a classic story in mind and in this earlier century, I'm taking a bit of artistic license….and now…**

* * *

Chapter XII

Long after the Phantom left, Christine stared in a daze at the blank wall of pale stone and the door it held. A minute might have passed or a small eternity. Did it matter? Could she even trust the concept of counting the hours? In this bizarre moment, this century to which she'd been abducted, surely time could torment with devastating tricks, forever deceiving…

She wished to fall into a dreamless slumber and forget everything – forget especially that which she yet struggled to accept.

She wished to escape this unfamiliar room and its confinement – but felt apprehensive of what more she might find beyond the door that held a world even more foreign than this room.

More than that, she wished Erik would return.

Dear God, where was he?

 _Was he alright?_

Christine closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, she needed rest, but the idea of sleep was laughable. She stared at the ceiling and walls without seeing anything, forever tossing and turning, unable to find ease with her mind wretchedly alert. The sunbeam to which her gaze became transfixed made an ever widening path along the floor as late morning blazed into afternoon and faded into what must be early evening.

Twice since Erik left the chamber, Christine apprehensively approached the window, hoping the view had somehow altered to the picture it should be, hoping this was only a waking nightmare from which she might exit …but the poor old man with the long white beard still stood bent over in the pillory, rotten vegetables and curses hurled at his head.

Trapped, just as she was trapped.

This was no dream. Dreams did not last this long or have continuous treks. At some point, they meandered into diverse paths and became something else entirely. This had gone on for days, over a week, and felt altogether horrifyingly real. She felt as if she had approached a wide chasm with a bottomless pit and no way of going back or knowing how to proceed.

To seek Madame Giry at the Opera House no longer presented an option – Madame Giry did not exist. No one from her world existed, save for Erik. He was her lifeline, all she had to cling to, and she feared every moment he was out of her presence.

The impossible had occurred – nor could she explain how he had fallen through time with her when he possessed no recollection of the event, even presumed to be a different man. Of one thing she was certain, and her mysterious appearance in a century nearly four hundred years before her own did not persuade her otherwise: No two men could be that much alike, in face, in form, in voice, in manner. This was no doppelganger, even an ancestor – this was Erik, her dear Angel and Phantom – and she feared that he might suddenly be sucked away from her – simply vanish before her eyes – to be seized back into their time. It made a twisted kind of sense, since she could not conceive how and why they came to be here in the first place. The stones, yes, she was fairly certain of the method used. Only after visiting them did she notice any peculiarities …

But Erik had not been at the Megaliths of Carnac that night.

Christine clutched fistfuls of the blanket in troubled frustration. The longer she dwelled on the attempt to find answers that only begat questions more bizarre, the greater the probability she would go stark raving mad. Perhaps she _was_ deranged. Perhaps the catastrophic events of the Don Juan and losing Erik, her friend and teacher for more than a decade, had sent her over the brink, and this was all the convoluted result of a warped imagination.

Meg often accused her of having her head in the clouds, one foot always straddling the line into fantasy, but even Christine doubted she could come up with something as fanciful as this!

She let out a humorless laugh that came out as a sob and snatched up the goblet, drinking the remainder of wine. She wished for another bottle. Or something stronger, like those foul spirits in Erik's flask. Anything to escape the thoughts whirling like a dervish inside her mind…

She had always despised the darkness and those obscure shapes in the shadows that came with it but never had been a true coward, though she wasn't always quick to show bravery. Her Papa had told her she possessed a gentle courage, a quiet grace that met confrontations when the need was imperative and the stakes high for those she loved. She had never been shy or meek as many in the theater supposed. Singing at fairs and on the streets at a young age, all across France with her Papa playing the violin, rid her of much of her timidity. Living and working among bawdy performers at the Opera House eliminated the rest. Her trait of keeping silent so as to listen to all of what was said (and perceive all that was not) had aided her at the theater, especially with her Angel of Music. She knew how to rely on silence to search deep within and equip herself with the daring needed for what must be done, even if her choices turned out to be abhorrent mistakes and she erred on the wrong side of caution. Like on the night of the Don Juan.

But in this strange moment of an even stranger time, all aspirations to bravery seemed to have vanished.

Erik had been absent all day - the lone sunbeam's course along the flagstones proved it - and she wondered if he had abandoned her. Not that she would blame him. If she were the recipient of such a wild tale, she might have run far and fast in the opposite direction.

"You did that more than once," she said beneath her breath in disgust. "And just look where it's gotten you."

The slow creak of the door had her snap her focus in that direction.

Erik stood on the threshold, and just like that, the unfamiliar weight of his rejection fell from her shoulders. But by the wary restraint in his eyes, he had something to say she wouldn't wish to hear. His somberness brought back her disquiet, accompanied by a sudden wave of bitterness – with his earlier desertion, with her situation, with this bizarre world, she wasn't sure, maybe all of it. She only wished he would look at her as he once did when they were five cellars beneath the earth. She needed her Angel now.

"Are you feeling improved?"

"I still find I'm in the wrong century. Though I assume that's not what you wanted to hear."

Hurriedly he slipped inside and shut the door. "You must never speak of such things when there's a risk of being overheard." He crossed the room, his long strides eating up the distance. "You must take heed with what you say and never mention anything that could raise questions."

"As to my sanity?" she said dismissively. At the Opera House she might have been shunned or mocked for her earlier declaration, as had been the case when the cast learned that the legendary Phantom was her teacher. "I don't care what others think. I ceased to care long ago."

He crouched low and grabbed her beneath the shoulders. "You must care – for your own safety. _Do you understand, Christine?_ These are not idle words."

His eyes bored into hers, stunning in their intensity, and the bite went out of her. She was so relieved to see him, to know he had not evaporated into mist or truly abandoned her, and she wasn't quite sure why she was angry. Quietly she nodded.

"Good. Once we leave Paris, there will be less risk involved, though when we rejoin my men, you must guard your tongue then as well. No one can know what you told me today. You must never repeat such words to anyone, even if they seem like a friend."

A flicker of hope lit inside her. "You're taking me back with you?"

Clearly unnerved by her innocent question, he straightened and began to pace.

"The Vicomte will continue to search until he's found you, of that I have no doubt. He'll not give up until he claims what he believes is rightfully his."

"The Vicomte," Christine breathed in remembered shock. "I'd forgotten about him."

Funny, in all these hours she'd not thought of him once, except in the past tense of another era.

Erik halted his restless strides and looked at her strangely.

"So Raoul has fallen into this ancient pocket of time too," she whispered.

Erik's expression grew more perplexed.

"The Vicomte de Chagny - Raoul…is that..." She hesitated as a possibility occurred. "Is that not his name?"

"The Vicomte is Frederick de Chagny. I know of no Raoul."

Her eyes fell shut at the impact of yet another shock, but at a sudden thought, she faintly smiled.

"Then it won't matter. Don't you see? Raoul is the man who knows me, not this Frederick person. And since Raoul is the Vicomte from my century, he doesn't exist here," she explained when Erik continued to look at her as though she spoke in a foreign tongue. "This Vicomte of the sixteenth century won't be searching _for_ _ **me**_ since he doesn't even know I exist."

"Why do you think he followed us to Paris? To _find_ **_you_**."

"You must be mistaken. Why would he chase after a woman he's never met?"

"Why should that matter?" His tone was incredulous. "All the noblesse manage such affairs through spoken or written correspondence. He would have arranged the marriage with a member of your family. Someone who sent you to Brittany. Eustace did capture you on de Chagny's estate –"

"Yes, yes, I know. But as I told you, I have no family, no cousins – no one. I was orphaned at the age of six when my Papa died. I was visiting there, yes, but _not_ _him_. I came to his land through the stones –"

"You **_must_** stop saying that."

"Why, if it's the truth?" she insisted. "Don't you believe me? Do you really think I'm making this up? But then, why should you believe a word I say when none of it makes a lick of sense..."

She answered her own question and shook her head in weary surrender. Biting her lip, she blinked away the tears, refusing to let more fall.

"I believe that you believe it," he said at last, his words gentle yet no less severe. "But that doesn't change the fact that the masses who reside outside these walls" – He jabbed a finger toward the window – "And perhaps those who dwell within, could mistake you for what you claim you're not, imprison you, torture you, and put you to death."

The blood drained from Christine's face as the gravity of her situation at last became clear.

"B-burn me, you mean." Her words trembled in a whisper. "At the stake…"

The grim look in his eyes gave her the answer she had no wish to acknowledge.

 _Dear God._ His men already thought her a witch…

"Or they might chain you in a dungeon cell, proclaim you to be a madwoman, and leave you there to rot. Or worse…"

She dared not ask what could be worse than that.

"What of you?" The words burned in her heart and past her tongue. "Do you fear me? Or think me evil? Perhaps after hearing my story, you would prefer to turn me over to the authorities and be rid of me?"

She couldn't help but see the irony of asking the former Phantom of the Opera such questions.

"Is that what you think?" The hurt in his eyes echoed in the disbelief of his words. "That I have brought you to this sacrosanct monument, to this wretched place that I once never would have dared enter – all the while continually warning you of the multitude of dangers – only to trick and deceive you into a trap?"

He whirled away, his cloak violently fluttering about his legs as he paced from window to wall, window to wall, before coming to a sudden stop before her.

"I have done _nothing_ but help you. Nothing. I swore to keep you safe. Do you think me so feeble-minded and weak as to break the vow I made because of what incredible fantasy you believe to be true?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, his low, heated words making her feel worse. "I wasn't thinking."

"And that is exactly the problem, Christine Daae. You speak without considering the consequences of reckless words that can ensnare you, even leading unto your destruction, and your actions are no better." He let out a weary sigh, his anger dissolved. "I say again – I shall do all within my power to protect you. I have thought long and hard, and am resolved there is only one manner to fully accomplish that…"

Desperate for his help, she waited to hear what he would say. His eyes glowed with determination.

"As your husband, I can keep you safe."

Christine blinked into the expectant silence.

"You want _to_ _marry_ me?"

She felt as lightheaded as on the evening she fainted in his lair after seeing an effigy of herself in the wedding gown…and as stunned and uncertain as when he broke from the opera to propose to her on the Don Juan bridge. On both occasions, she had seen something now missing from his eyes. His pleading eyes that had beseeched her, filled with adoration and love…

Those silvery blue eyes, still just as beautiful, but glittering cold, like diamonds. Concerned for her plight, yes, resolute to fulfill the vow made, but otherwise indifferent.

"Why?" The word escaped before she could think twice.

He pulled his brows together in impatience. "Have I not made myself clear?"

"No – not this. Not me." She shook her head in frustration. "Why should _you_ invite that kind of trouble? What would you get out of such an arrangement, save for more problems and seemingly endless danger?"

She expected him to get angry and fly into one of his rants. Instead, he regarded her with quiet deliberation and gave a curt nod. He strode to the window and looked out, clasping his wrist behind his back.

"A fair question and should you agree, I want you aware of what a life with me would entail. I am no stranger to peril. It is as familiar to me as drawing breath, and due to my heightened awareness I can protect you where others may fail. Yet bear in mind, I am a wanted criminal, a thief, considered a monster, and after hearing what I have to say, you may intensely agree I'm the worst kind of beast and wish nothing more to do with me. If that should be the case, I'll not force you to wed."

He turned his head to look at her, then turned fully and once more covered the distance between them. Startled, she watched, her eyes locked with his as she slowly lifted her head to follow until he stood so close she could raise her hand and touch him. Her breaths quickened.

"I want you, Christine Daae." His words were silk wrapped in flame. "Given our history this week it should come as no surprise. I have desired you from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Should you agree, you will be mine, and nothing will change that. I want a wife, as other men, a wife who will take me into her body and welcome my touch." He motioned to his mask with an angry flourish. "One who will look past an eternity of _this_ to become my living bride."

Tingles of fire raced through her blood at the shocking candor of his words, faintly echoing similar words spoken in another lifetime. Her skin heated from within. She could barely form a reply.

"Your masked face?"

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, surprised by her soft response after what he had so blatantly divulged.

"What is it you ask?"

"Will you allow me to see you unmasked?"

He scoffed. "You have no idea what nightmares you invite with such a question."

"Not a nightmare –"

"No." His answer tore into her whisper, direct and curt. He spun on his heel and retraced his steps to the door. "I will leave you to think over what I've said. Consider carefully, damoiselle. Be very sure. Once it is decided, there can be no turning back."

"And if I refuse?" she asked anxiously. "Will you leave me here alone, to fend for myself in what has become to me a strange and frightening city?"

He hesitated, then turned again to look at her. "You shall have my protection, no matter your choice. But I can better safeguard you if you are my wife. By law that would deem you my property, and no man can touch you without fear of incurring my wrath, certainly not force you into marriage, namely the Vicomte."

"I see."

He gave a brusque nod at her sudden distance. "You must be hungry. I shall see to our supper. Those fools who run this mausoleum have been warned never to enter this chamber."

Vaguely wondering why, Christine watched him go, feeling as if she'd been trapped into an eternal dream of stark reality, nightmare or fairy tale, she had yet to determine. Her head still pained her and she wished for the soft tranquility of a chapel in which to reflect, then remembered they were in a cathedral. What better place to find solitude. Surely she could find an alcove and closet herself away in semi-darkness, unseen, away from the glaring white walls and the intrusive sunlight that poured inside.

For the first time in her life, Christine craved the darkness.

 **xXx**

The Phantom moved swift and silent through an outside corridor toward the area where he recalled the archdeacon's abode to be, from his earlier reconnaissance of their temporary habitat - this time in search of kitchens and a larder with food.

His senses were ever sharp and aware, but his mind strayed from his task.

He had not missed the horror in Christine's eyes, could not entirely blame her for her response, had never truly believed any woman would agree without coercion to chain her life to a monster. So why should she be the exception? And why the bloody hell did she seem determined to see him without his mask? Had she not seen enough that helpless night when the darkness came to capture his soul?

The curious had asked what lay hidden, of course, those few wretched women of brief acquaintance, insignificant creatures whose names he failed to recall. But Christine seemed to know what mangled deformity the leather casing hid, judging by the accuracy of her former words to him.

Her compliance to accept his dismal secret notwithstanding, he had no intention of making the same mistake twice by revealing the blight of his twisted face, with deliberate intent or accidental error.

Why should he seek for ways to earn her disgust and hatred, when what he wanted…

What he _wanted_ …

The thought brought him up short as did the sight of two servants ahead. He refused to give the hopeless idea a place in his mind, as he slipped into a shadowed alcove to avoid being seen. Even without the resident cleric's warning that he and Christine must remain hidden (as if such a warning was needed), he had no desire to be sighted or confronted with a need to explain why a masked stranger wandered the grounds of Notre Dame.

Nor would he allow imprudent feelings to cloud his judgment, the vain wish for more, for what could never be. In all likelihood she would never give even a moment's consideration to the idea of their union, rejecting his offer outright in her mind. Somehow, he must find some other way to protect her from the Vicomte's clutches.

Perhaps if they were to put her in men's clothing and disguise her as one of his band. It would mean that all of those lovely ringlets would need to be chopped short, and he felt an almost physical pain to consider such sacrilege to her beauty. Yet even if she did undertake the sacrifice, there was no guarantee he would have the loyalty of his men to keep her identity hidden. Half of them did not trust her, suspicious of her arrival to the camp, certain she must be a witch. At least, outlaws themselves, they would not run the risk of becoming an informant toward her destruction and getting caught. Nor would they dare risk his wrath to rain down upon their heads.

Unless they were fools.

The slothful servants finally passed, in heated conversation about the blame for a missing bottle of wine. The thief of the vintage slipped from his hiding place and resumed his task to find food. He had not gone far when he heard a familiar bird call.

Stopping in his tracks, the Phantom scanned the vicinity and spotted a thatch of red hair through the overgrowth. Taking quick note of his surroundings, he hurried to the bushes that shielded his men.

"Milord, we would have come earlier, but more of those bloody soldiers came for entertainment, one of them the Vicomte's man. Perrette could hardly turn them away without arousing suspicion, and we needed to stay hidden."

The Phantom held up a hand for silence. "Never mind, Eustace. I have a mission for you both." He looked at the boy and saw the dark blue material he held over one arm. "What is that?"

"Milady's cloak." Tobias handed the item over. "She left it in the wagon. Is she…is she well?"

The Phantom did not miss the boy's concern as he took Christine's cloak from him. "She has awakened from her unnatural slumber but needs rest."

Eustace snorted. "Have you not taken the wench home? I thought that was the plan."

"Plans have changed." The Phantom's foreboding tone warned that he would not tolerate an ill word spoken about Christine. "There is a matter we must discuss. Last night's meeting did not go as expected, the foolish trap they set to their loss. I would have paid them in gold, but for their treachery we will take what is needed instead."

"Oh, aye." Eustace smiled grimly. "I'm going to enjoy this."

"Meet me here, tonight, in the third hour. We strike then."

 **xXx**

Christine slipped outside the door of the borrowed chamber, the stones icy cold beneath the soles of her feet. Yet even that discomfort did not deter her from her quest. She crept along the corridor, grateful to find it empty. Colonnades on one side gave an obstructed view of the approaching night, with no windows or walls to block the soft breeze, only bushes. The opposite side led to various chambers, all with their doors closed. At the first open doorway she came to, she peeked in, stunned by the sight that met her eyes. As if in a trance, she moved slowly inside.

The grandeur of the ancient cathedral could surely rival a royal's castle, and indeed kings, queens, and emperors had been crowned here. It stood replete with grand statuary, precious metals and glorious artwork portrayed in stained glass. A vaulted ceiling towered over the spacious cathedral, a multitude of arched niches on either side separated by tall colonnades and leading to shadowed areas that presented a mystery in the widely spaced wreaths of candlelight.

She continued down the long walkway between rows of benches. The most marvelous sight captured her attention, and in awe, she moved toward a circular window that reminded her of a layered flower and surely must be as big as the chamber she woke in. She came to a stop before the decorated panes and stared up in awe at the abundance of colors and designs, realizing each sculpted portion of stained glass depicted a picture, and what must be hundreds of them formed the brilliant kaleidoscope of a flower. In sunlight it must be breathtaking, with the illumination shining through colored glass. In the rings of candlelight that flanked each end it was stunning.

So caught up was she in the beauty, she forgot to seek out a nook to meditate, the rose window offering its own aura of peace. A stir of movement to her left reminded her she was an intruder here, and she turned with an apology poised on her lips.

From one of the arched alcoves of darkness, a figure stepped into the dim light, and her heart skipped a beat. His cloak swirled softly around his tall form.

"You brought me to Notre Dame?" she asked in disbelief.

The Phantom approached, ghost-like, his footfalls quiet, while her lowered voice seemed to resound throughout the cavernous chamber.

"You should not be here," he said in greeting.

"No one saw me." She defended her actions. "I needed a place to think. At the Opera House I would go to the chapel and light a candle for my father."

He considered her words, his manner grim. "If you need a moment, I'll not stop you. However, we should return before anyone enters and notices your presence."

She frowned. "Are you so fearful of what I might say? Trust me, I've had all day to accustom myself to what's happened, and know not to speak unwisely."

A reluctant smile flickered at his lips, and her eyes drew there.

"As pleased as I am to hear it, the need is twofold. The cleric who granted us sanctuary asked that you keep to the chamber you were given until our departure, so as not to cause undue trouble."

"But why?" She wasn't certain she could tolerate another hour alone confined to that room. "Am I really such a burden?"

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"Are you truly so unaware of your beauty?"

His question stunned her. Her face went warm, and she felt unsure how to respond.

"The men who dwell on these grounds are not accustomed to having a lovely young maiden reside within these chambers. He mentioned carnal temptations that he did not wish to stir."

She looked away in embarrassment. "I don't need another moment. I'm ready to return now."

Christine sensed him smirk at his little victory, but in the dim glow of candles that failed to break through the stretch of shadow they walked through, she couldn't be sure.

They had gone only a short distance when he suddenly grabbed her arm and whisked her into the nearest patch of darkness. Breathless from more than the unexpected act, she stood with her back to his chest while he held one arm protectively beneath her breasts. He had held her like this twice before, in another lifetime, nor was she soon to forget the incident by the lake. Her heart raced at his nearness, the heat of his body singeing hers through the gown.

"It is not only you," he whispered, his lips barely brushing her ear, causing her to shiver. "I also have no wish to be seen."

At the sensation of being held against him, his breath warm against her ear, she barely felt connected to the earth. Surely the only support holding her to it was Erik. Her dazed attention caught notice of a servant in a brown tunic walk past the alcove in which they hid. Only when the man arrived to the front of the nave and lowered himself to hands and knees to scrub the floor with the cloth from the bucket he held did Erik speak.

"In the Archdeacon's absence, it appears the servants are extraordinarily busy with their cleaning duties," he whispered, his heated breath causing another rush of warmth to course through her veins.

They stood in the shadows, pressed close for some time, and Christine felt she could remain there indefinitely. Once the servant put his back to them, Erik released her and tugged her arm.

Wordlessly she followed him as he led her to the small chamber. Now that she was fully aware of their location, she stared at the narrow bed, curious. In surprise she saw her cloak lying on the blanket and grabbed it up as if it were an old friend.

"Tobias found it in the wagon."

"He was here?" She pulled the material around herself to dispel the evening chill. "I wish I would have known. I owe him an apology."

"You owe him nothing."

Christine watched Erik as he stood beside the low table and pulled a wheel of cheese and loaf of bread from a cloth.

"You must be ravenous. I apologize for not seeing to your needs all day." He tossed the cloth to the table.

She shrugged off his apology. "With all that's happened, I doubt I would have been able to eat a bite."

She looked around the stark chamber. "Whose room is this?"

He handed her a hunk of cheese and bread. "You must eat."

She took what he offered, no longer feeling queasy with shock, only shaky.

"I was told this is a spare room. The bed was put here as a provisional need. Used by those builders, who spent their days and nights here throughout the centuries, making their contributions toward the construction of the cathedral."

"I had seen it from afar, of course, but the inside is more magnificent than I dreamed."

"Yes, the craftsmanship is remarkable..."

At his wistful words, something in her heart fluttered.

"You could craft something just as beautiful, I'm sure of it."

In his lair, she had seen his detailed drawings of her likeness but also of elaborate buildings and knew he had a gift in all things artistic. She recalled the statuesque phoenix bed of gold – something so heavy and large could not have possibly been carried down to the fifth cellar – and felt sure his skills would extend to architecture.

He looked at her sharply. "Why would you say such a thing?"

She spoke to him as Erik, he _was_ Erik, but he didn't know that.

She should tell him, he should know. He already thought her a victim of her own delusions and still vowed to protect her. No matter what more she said, Christine felt assured he would uphold his word. She truthfully had nothing to lose by telling him the rest…

"You have the hands of an artist," she said in weak explanation. "Your fingers are long and slender." She cleared her throat when he continued to look at her strangely and quickly led back to the subject of the cathedral. "The window I was staring at is so beautiful. It reminds me of a kaleidoscope."

"A…kaleidoscope?"

"You don't have them here…?" she said in sudden comprehension. "Well, how to explain it. They are quite the invention. A friend of Raoul's had one – a tube of metal, like a telescope, only smaller. At one end there are bits of glass in bright colors trapped inside – stained glass, I suppose. Raoul's friend said there are mirrors placed at angles. When you look through a hole at the opposite end and turn the tube, the glass tumbles about and reflects off the mirrors. Each turn of the hand brings with it a different shape, completely parallel. Much like the rose window," she finished lamely.

He never ceased staring at her with those intense, enigmatic eyes of blue gray, and she wished to God she knew what he was thinking.

"A telescope?" he said after a moment.

"Yes, they are very much alike…oh my." She blinked. "You don't have telescopes in this century either?" At the wary shake of his head, she went on to explain, taking small bites now and then, relieved when he did not scold or curb her attempt with more warnings never to speak of such things.

"It's a metal tube that expands – you pull it out to extend it – and it's used to see across a great distance. They used one in an opera once. Meg and I were only children, and weren't supposed to touch the props, but between rehearsals we took turns looking through the spyglass when no one was watching. They are called that too – I assume because you can spy without being seen. And what we saw! Clear across the auditorium, in one of the boxes, one of the dancers slapped a boy who was being fresh." She giggled, surprised she could again laugh. "The Opera House was as big as this cathedral, and we could see clear to the opposite end. As close as you and I are, that's how much detail we could see with the spyglass, as if they stood right before us. I understand they're used by captains on ships…you do have those?"

"Captains?" The Phantom's lips flickered in a half smile, her exuberant innocence in her shared experiences endearing, even if he did not understand half of what she said.

"Well, yes, but I meant ships."

He looked at her a moment then gave a slow nod.

"The sea does not agree with me," he admitted. "The waves…"

"You've sailed on a ship before?"

"Yes."

"Where did you go?"

"Persia."

The name escaped his lips without thought, and he pulled his brows together in confusion. Why had he said that? He knew of no such place. He had been on a ship once, as a lad, in the attempt to escape Brittany and find a better life, later discovered by the cook as a stowaway before the ship could sail. He had been beaten severely and thrown off board. He had never been to sea.

Not wanting to dwell on what only confused him, he looked at Christine, noting how she rubbed her temple with her fingertips.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"It's better since I've eaten."

She still looked too pale, and he noticed how sluggish her movements were.

"You should lie down and get some rest."

"Where will you be?" Her response came immediate, worried.

Thinking she wanted him far from her, he grimly walked to the door. "Fear not, damoiselle. I will find shelter elsewhere."

"No – wait! Please…"

He stopped and turned in curiosity.

"If you wouldn't mind staying until I fall asleep, I would be most grateful."

He saw the fear in her eyes and knew a moment's surprise that it wasn't about him.

"As you like."

He watched as she untucked her legs from beneath her and pulled the blanket back, removing her cloak and slipping into bed. It was then he fully noticed.

"Your shoes…"

"I'm sorry. I lost them last night."

"I'll bring you another pair."

She smiled then, and his heart gave a little tug to see it.

"Thank you." She lay on her side, pulling her cloak up over her along with the blanket, then closed her eyes. "Goodnight."

The Phantom continued to stare, long after her breaths grew slow and steady. In slumber her countenance was untroubled, and he resolved to do all he must to keep it that way.

 **xXx**

Christine woke in the night to find the room in absolute darkness. For an instant she panicked, until she saw a crack of moonlight on the stones. She jumped from bed to throw open the shutters, allowing the dim glow to filter inside. A look around the room showed her it was empty.

She was alone.

Curious as to where Erik had gone, she walked back to bed, hugging herself, and sat down. She waited for his return, until her lids began to droop. Unable to stay alert, she lay back down, a mist soon enveloping her mind.

Suddenly she felt her arms grabbed and her eyes flew open.

Faces she knew and faces unfamiliar leered at her. Faces of Erik's men and the faces of strangers.

"Witch!" one man cried in accusation, and others took up the chant.

"No, please!" Christine begged.

Two men held her arms as they hauled her from bed and onto her feet. She resisted but to no avail.

" _Witch! Witch! Witch!"_

What began as a low murmur escalated into a dull roar.

"I'm not a witch, I swear I'm not! Please, you must believe me…"

Deaf to her cries for mercy, they dragged her down a path of darkness, with only torchlight to see. Faces loomed in her sight, scorning, leering, mocking. A burly man stepped from the mob and gripped the neck of her tunic in meaty fists, ripping it asunder to her navel and baring her breasts. A cry of harsh approval went up through the crowd. She whimpered in humiliation, trying to cover herself, but the punishing hands on her arms wouldn't let her. As they moved her along the muddy path that sucked at the soles of her feet, other hands clawed at her exposed skin, yanked her hair, grasped her breasts. She hurried her steps, no longer fighting to hold back, now only anxious to get away.

The crowd roared, mad with bloodlust, their faces livid with hate. Ahead in the path, a tall stake loomed upright from the ground. Upon seeing it, Christine struggled anew, until the many tormenting hands grabbed her body and hoisted her high into the air, so that she looked up into a weeping sky. A soft rain fell and she knew relief. Surely no flame could spark wet tinder!

They passed her along, up the path, the relentless hands grabbing and pushing her forward above their heads. Suddenly the hands were gone as she was thrown to the ground.

Painfully, she pushed herself up on her palms and looked out at the suddenly silent crowd. They all stared ahead, motionless. Hopeful they might finally listen and realize their error, she spoke.

"Please, let me go. I'm no witch. This has all been a dreadful mistake. It's not my fault. The stones, it was the stones…"

In the distance her eyes caught the form of a masked and cloaked figure running toward her.

 _ **"Erik -**_ _**Help me!**_ "

Her cry for help brought life back to the mob and they began to screech obscenities and accusations at her again. Someone grabbed her arms and forced her back against the stake. Ropes wound around her middle, cutting into her flesh. The crackling sound of flame igniting wood brought her horrified eyes to her feet, where the glow of a fire had spread, licking hungrily against tinder. Eustace held the torch.

He smiled at her. "Burn, witch. Burn in hell."

She screamed, the heat and pain unbearable as her skin began to singe.

"God, no – please, no! I'm not a witch – _I'm not!_ "

Erik ran forward through a break in the crowd. Yet through the smoke and her tears, she could see that no matter how hard he ran, his image grew fainter and smaller – until it disappeared as a wall of flame erupted before her eyes.

"HELP ME!"

"Christine!"

Strong hands encased her arms, the ropes gone, the air cool on her perspiring skin and no longer aflame.

Her eyes flew open a second time.

The Phantom held her in his grasp, shaking her awake, his eyes concerned.

"Christine…?"

Panting hard, she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic.

"You're here! Where were you? I couldn't reach you and then you were gone…"

"Christine, hush, it's alright."

"Don't let them get me – _please!_ Don't let them -"

Suddenly she found herself in his arms, and she clung to him as tightly as he held her, the heat of his body against her thin gown a comfort. As the veils of fog lifted from her mind, she realized that she was in bed.

"You're alright," he whispered again, "I won't let them do anything to harm you."

"They'll take me from you," she insisted, her disjointed words echoes of the past bleeding into this new and present dread. "They've tried before..."

"No one will take you from me, Christine. _No one_."

Despite his assurances, she could not stop shaking, could not stop crying, the tears falling in silent rivulets down her cheeks as she gasped for breath. He rubbed his palms in slow circles against her back and rocked her slightly, his arms firm around her, but she only clung to his tunic harder, so tightly her fists hurt. She pressed her face against the wild racing of his heart and clung, sure that at any moment grasping, violent hands would tear her away from him, would tear into her...

And then, when she felt she might collapse into another blind panic, his voice came to her softly, gently, a whisper of silk to her senses, the effect almost tangible, rich and beautiful…

He was singing.

Stunned to realize it and to hear the aria she'd comforted him with on the night of his black spell, _his_ aria that he'd written of the music of the night, she struggled to control her raspy breathing and listen more closely. He sang so low she had to strain to hear, but as the tension began to ease from her shoulders and she melted against his strength, his voice slightly gained in volume. A sensual lullaby. Seductive. Gentle. Cosseting. A lavish delicacy to her ears, a balm of comfort for her soul. He sang all the verses, then sang them again until she rested limply against his chest, her breathing even and slow.

Once his final notes caressed the air and the nocturnal stillness returned to the moonlit chamber, Christine closed her eyes, never moving from his arms.

"Yes," she whispered. "My answer is yes."

xXx


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and continued interest! You guys make my day. :) … and now…**

* * *

 **Chapter XIII**

.

Christine stood at the window and stared out at the abandoned pillory, her mind a muddle of conflicted thoughts. The crowds had thinned, everyone about their business with no further entertainment to distract them, and she wondered what had happened to the old man. Was he now chained to a dungeon wall? Awaiting a more dreadful sentence? Would she share in the punishment of the pillory? No, Erik had said a fate far worse than torture in a dungeon could be her lot, and that would not describe a pillory…

She shut her mind to her morbid line of reflection that threatened to bring back the image of the nightmare. While it was true what she told Erik, that she had accustomed herself to her bizarre displacement through time, acceptance did not eliminate fear or confusion.

By the position of the sun in the sky, it was well past noon. Indeed, she heard the bell in the tower toll the hour a short while ago. A cool breeze whispered against her face, and she wished to be outdoors, back in the forest, away from this confined chamber and secluded from everyone. Save for Erik, of course.

Had he heard her response to him last night?

It was a question she had asked since she opened her eyes at dawn and found herself alone. Upon hearing her Angel's voice sing so sweetly to her again, after an interminable silence of weeks, and before that - _months_ when he abandoned her at the Opera House and she thought never to hear his mellifluous baritone again, she had been comforted. Her answer came easily, but exhaustion from the effects of the nightmare sent her directly into slumber once more, held safely in his arms, and if he replied, she'd not heard him.

Her mind was unchanged, but she possessed qualms of what this venture into marriage with a man who no longer knew her would hold. At the Opera House she had run from the dark desires Erik stirred within her flesh and soul, certain that to surrender must be sin. Seduction oozed from his every pore, passion a dark innate part of his nature, and it had terrified her, the manner in which her body ached to succumb to his, the emotions he ignited so foreign to her innocence. That she desired the notorious Phantom, a _murderer_ , was surely the greatest sin of all. And she had run from him, had run and sought safety with her childhood friend who offered calm and never aroused such disturbing feelings.

Foolish child that she'd been, she soon regretted seeking the fulfillment she desperately needed where there was none to be had. The passionate feeling she had erroneously thought she might also find with the boy she once recklessly pledged her heart to.

Did she truly know the concept of love?

She thought she had, but in Raoul's company, the man to whom she was so fleetingly betrothed, all she could think of was Erik. All she could remember were his lips on her lips, his hands roaming her body, his voice teaching her soul to breathe and take wing. She wanted to be in his presence every minute of every day, and when he was absent from her, she felt cold inside. She delighted to hear him speak, to sing, and to hold discussions with him on any subject under the sun. He could make even the inane seem magnificent.

If all of this was love, and it must be, then she was doomed, because she deeply loved a man who did not share the sentiment. How bitterly ironic that the tables had turned – Erik having once loved her at the Opera House, so tenderly vowing his love. While, traumatized by the night's events, Christine had failed to understand her true feelings and said nothing, only folded her ring into his hand.

He had murdered Buquet, yes, but she came to realize that he felt trapped, cornered, and lashed out as a means of survival. Perhaps not the case with Piangi. But had Raoul not planned the same and reckoned it an act of honor?

He had devised a plot to capture the Phantom, to kill him and justified it as his right. He was no gendarme sworn to uphold his duty, but he seemed to think that his title gave him the authority to kill another man as if he were vermin to be gotten rid of, because he was in the way – not to imprison him, but to destroy him: _Yet while he lives, he will haunt us til we're dead…_

Christine shivered at the memory of Raoul's words, at his insistence she betray Erik. Finally, reluctantly she agreed, never feeling comfortable with the idea and making Raoul promise only to seek his capture, not his life, as he had made the attempt to take Erik's life on the snow that horrid day in the cemetery. The night of the opera, when the soldiers surrounded the bridge and aimed their rifles at Raoul's order, then to hear the shot of one in the moment before she and Erik fell through the trapdoor, she realized in horror that Raoul would do as he wished to achieve what he wanted. The thought of Erik dead had withered her soul, made her look at her ex fiancée in a disturbing new light, and only until she saw Erik alive and well did she feel life again.

Now she felt her heart brimming over with such strong emotion, such _love_ , and all he wanted of her was physical nirvana. It hurt, but after her betrayal, after leaving him there to face the mob alone, it was no more than she deserved.

In the days of the Opera, behind every coaxing word, behind the hypnotic burn of his eyes, she had felt Erik's intense devotion, heard the sweet truth of it from his lips before she departed that night.

But now…

Christine shook her head sadly and sank to the bed. He had left a dish of bread and cheese, at least seeing to her needs as promised, and she nibbled at what remained.

Only last week she had resolved never to give herself to him when he thought her a stranger and had no memory of his feelings for her – (surely he would still love her if he could remember) – but that was before she came to the awareness that they had fallen through a rip in time, where unfamiliar dangers threatened at every turn. She needed his protection, needed his guidance … she needed him. Perhaps that was the only thing that had not changed between them: Her need and his protection. Last night he had proven he was still her Angel, even if he had no recollection of being one to her.

She only hoped her deep feelings for him so recently discovered would be enough to balance the simple lust Erik felt for her, that somehow their marriage could thrive on such feeble sustenance. At least he had offered that commitment and did not attempt to take her as a simple conquest.

Again she seriously toyed with telling him the truth of his identity. She would prefer he come to the knowledge himself, but so far she had seen no glimmer of awareness. He believed he had lived an entirely different life as Le Masque and had a history here – why she didn't know – but if she was to tell him that it was all a deception and he came from her century, why should he believe her? She had no proof, and he already doubted her claim of coming from another time, thinking the injury to her head caused farfetched illusions.

Idly she rubbed the lump near her temple with her fingertips. Knocked twice in the head in the span of one week – it was a wonder she could think clearly at all, and she felt grateful for a rock solid skull. Though the ache behind her eyes still lingered and when she moved too swiftly she grew lightheaded. She had yet to see a looking glass – if such a thing even existed – and wryly imagined the frightful sight she made with the most recent swelling on her brow and the colorful bruise that must be there. And her hair was certainly a rat's nest by now. It was a wonder Erik desired her at all.

The door opened, and she turned at the sound.

"You're back," she breathed in relief.

He stood in the doorway, regarding her with uncertainty before entering the room and closing the door behind him.

"You are unwell?" He set down a cloth bundle.

"Why should you think that because I'm relieved to see you…" Christine shook her head. "Never mind. I was concerned. You left no note, of course you never leave one, but I wasn't sure where you'd gone. And with all that's happened since our arrival in Paris, I was…concerned." She was rambling like the village idiot, her unacknowledged reply from last night standing between them like the glaring change of a libretto in dire need of being discussed.

His eyes widened. "You can read?"

"Yes." She noted his surprise. "Is that so unusual? I can write too."

He studied her a moment before answering. "It is not uncommon for the daughters of nobles to be tutored in such skills, depending on the father's preference, but you told me you do not come from nobility."

"No, but neither do you, and you read and write."

He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"

 _Oh, Erik, I know so much about you, and for all the knowledge I have, I understand just as little_.

"You might have mentioned it," she said, her reply sounding weak.

"I have no recollection of doing so."

"But you told me yourself that you don't always remember things that previously happened after the black spells hit."

He considered her words then curtly nodded, dismissing the subject.

She felt guilty for the deception, but with the suspicious glint returned to his eyes, it was not the best time to tell him of how well she really did know him. Not when another matter begged attention.

"About last night…" She smoothed damp palms down her kirtle. He raised his brow, waiting for her to go on. "You sang to me." Her words held a dreamy quality.

"You were distraught from the nightmare. I recalled that you told me that such a thing helps you through troubled times."

"It does. You have the voice of an angel. An Angel of Music…" She hesitated when he gave no response, no reaction whatsoever. "I, um, I gave you my answer to your proposal before I fell asleep. Did you hear me?"

A slight nod was all the answer he gave.

"Perhaps we should discuss it?"

His expression grew hard. "Having second thoughts?"

"No, it's not that. I just wondered…" She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. "…how we are to proceed? And…and when?"

He closed the distance between them.

"If you are feeling well enough, we can exchange vows now."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "What - _here_?" She looked at him incredulously when he nodded. "Without a priest? Or witnesses?"

"A priest is unnecessary. As to witnesses, I prefer no one know of our presence."

She thought of Eustace and Tobias, but could certainly do without the cantankerous Scotsman as a witness at her wedding, since he sorely disapproved of her. She had agreed to marry Erik but in this matter she would remain firm. Her Catholic upbringing would allow no less.

"It wouldn't feel as if we were truly married without a priest," she insisted.

"I considered you might say that, after what you said at the campsite. Once the cleric is here, I'll ask him to conduct the ceremony. It is the best I can do. Will that suffice, Christine?"

"You're sure we won't need two witnesses to make it valid?"

"The marriage would be recognized if we spoke our vows alone. There is no need for others to be involved and less risk that way, but the cleric knows of our presence, so when he returns I will speak with him. He divides his time between his own parish and the cathedral during the archdeacon's absence."

She nodded and fidgeted, clasping her hands before her. "I would ask one more favor. Might I have some water to wash with? And soap if you have it, or whatever is used to get clean..."

His eyes gentled and he nodded. "I will see to it." He hesitated. "Are you feeling well?"

She laughed nervously. "I must look a fright. That's the second time you've asked that since you walked through the door."

"You are lovely as always."

She had reason to doubt that, but the sincerity in his quiet words warmed her heart. He lifted his hand toward her face, and she inhaled a soft breath. But instead of the touch she expected, he hesitated then dropped his hand back to his side and turned to the door.

"I will see to your request." He stopped before exiting the chamber. "In the cloth sack are shoes to replace what was lost."

Not certain what had happened, Christine watched in confusion as he exited the chamber.

xXx

An hour before sunset, Erik led Christine through the outside corridor to another chamber housed at the back of the cathedral, near their temporary abode.

After a stilted knock at the door, a voice bade them to enter.

Christine noticed the lines of tension around Erik's mouth and knew this could not be easy for him. Whether he called himself Le Masque or Phantom, neither man encouraged or engaged in social encounters.

She put a hand to his arm before he could open the door and he looked at her in impatience, a question in his eyes.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

His gaze softened and he nodded, opening the door.

The chamber they stepped into was smaller than the bedchamber and reminded Christine of how a sixteenth century office might appear. A torch stood mounted high upon the wall, giving the room light, and a man in a plain tunic of brown wool sat behind a table cluttered with parchments. A candlestick shed light on his work. He appeared to be in his forties, with graying hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. To each side of him and behind, a honeycomb of odd wooden shelves with hollowed compartments held scrolls.

His eyes swept over them both. "Monsieur Fantôme…?"

"I have need of your aid," Erik said tightly, the words to obtain help difficult to say. "This woman and I…" He glanced Christine's way. "We wish to be wed."

"I see." If the cleric felt any surprise, he concealed it well, turning his attention to Christine, who stood a step behind the Phantom, near the door. "And you, mademoiselle, is it your wish to be wed to this man?"

Again the Phantom looked at her. This time she met his eyes.

"It is, Père. I want nothing more."

The Phantom's heart lurched at the quiet glow in her eyes. He could almost believe…

The cleric nodded and spoke again. "I am pleased to see you have recovered from your ill fortune, mademoiselle. Your head, does it still pain you?"

At the reference, the Phantom watched as her fingers lightly touched the swelling near her brow. The bruise, no longer a glaring purple, had lightened to yellow-brown.

"Only a little," she admitted. "The rest has helped."

He looked at them both. "I presume you have come to ask for my blessing?"

"That," the Phantom said, "and to conduct the ceremony."

The cleric's dark brows lifted at that. "It is no secret that the church frowns upon clandestine marriages, no matter that they are recognized by the laws of the land. But I must profess surprise, given the state in which you arrived, that you have chosen to abide by these higher dictates…"

The Phantom wryly filled in the blanks of what he did not say – that he was a wanted criminal in hiding, seeking sanctuary with an injured young woman whose identity had been kept a mystery.

"The banns will need to be posted and read over a period of three weeks," the cleric continued.

"The banns must be waived," the Phantom interrupted. "Given our situation, it is impossible to wait. I will pay you in gold for a license." At the man's surprise that the Phantom would know such negotiations were sometimes permitted, he added, "I was told of you, Père Arnould, that after the incident within these walls two decades ago you were sympathetic toward monsters such as myself." He tensely motioned to his mask. "It is why I came here, seeking shelter and aid. Tell me I was not wrong to do so…"

As if his words sparked a memory, all tension left the cleric's jaw and a hint of melancholy misted his eyes. He looked at the Phantom and nodded.

"I was but a lad, an aide to the archdeacon who served then," he said sadly, "on the day the babe was left on the doorstep of the cathedral. He was named for the feast day in which he was found. I attended university here while he grew up within these walls and became the bell ringer." The cleric shook his head. "Many feared him for his monstrous appearance and called him a creation of the devil, but he had a gentle soul. I rarely spoke with him, my duties to the archdeacon increased as I grew into my studies, but I knew Quasimodo to be kind, even intelligent after a fashion."

The Phantom heard Christine gasp and looked at her. Her dark eyes were round with shock as she moved forward to stand beside him.

"The hunchback?" she whispered.

"Ah, you have heard the stories, then. Still they speak of it…Yes, he was afflicted with a deformation of his body and his face. He saved the gypsy woman, Esmeralda, when she was sentenced to hang for murder and witchcraft by bringing her here and enacting the law of sanctuary…my dear, you don't look well. Are you ill?"

"I…" Christine grabbed hold of the Phantom's arm. "A bit dizzy."

The cleric looked at her strangely, but rose from the table. "I will get you water."

"Merci," she whispered as he left.

"Christine?"

The Phantom turned to her in concern, and she grabbed his other arm.

"What he said – all of it – I read it, Erik! Many times. In a novel. _Notre-Dame de Paris_ , it was my second favorite book next to _La Belle et la Bête_. I always thought it was a story of fiction, a legend – but _it's true!_ "

She swayed on her feet, and he took hold of her arm, leading her to the stool to sit down. So excited was she by her discovery, she failed to notice the chill that swept over his countenance at her address toward him.

"Victor Hugo wrote it," she went on excitedly, "Meg gave me a copy for my birthday two years ago. It was so romantic but quite tragic. Quasimodo saved the beautiful Esmeralda because of his great love for her, and though it was a love unrequited, she showed him kindness by giving him water when he was at the pillory, and later he watched over her as a guardian, to protect her. That evil archdeacon, the man who raised him, tried to rape her, and Quasimodo saved her again, later killing him by throwing him off the balcony – but he couldn't save her from the mob, and she was hanged ..."

"Christine," he interrupted sternly, "You must **not** speak of this when he returns."

At the hurt that entered her eyes, he looked away, unable to bear inflicting pain but alarmed by yet another bizarre revelation of what she supposed true. His glance swept the parchments strewn over the desk, where he noticed a crude map lay. He slotted the information away in his mind for reference.

"I am not a fool, monsieur," she said stiffly. "I know what not to say."

"Let us hope so."

The cleric returned with a goblet, handing it to Christine. She thanked him and took a sip of water. The man turned his attention to the Phantom.

"You did not err in your judgment to seek me out," the cleric said, answering the Phantom's earlier concern. "I will help you. Would that someone could have helped him."

Christine could not resist one last question and phrased it carefully.

"Père, I have wondered, is it true that they found Quasimodo at the Gibbet of Montfaucon where he died, clutching Esmeralda's body to his breast? And after trying to separate their skeletons years later…"

Erik looked at her sharply, his eyes burning fire.

The cleric had gone pale with shock. "How could you know…"

"…their bodies crumbled together to dust?" she whispered the rest anxiously, wondering why he stared at her so strangely. She did not dare look at Erik, feeling his anger.

"No one knew that. No one. The new archdeacon felt it wise to keep such things from common knowledge. Only a select few knew and two of those men are dead. Who told you? How came you by such information?"

She felt a little faint by the sudden edge to his voice. Erik tensed, moving close to stand protectively beside her, his hand going to her shoulder.

"I – I heard some men speak of it on the street," she whispered the false excuse, wondering if it was a greater sin to lie to a member of the clergy. "I had no idea if it was true or not. I-I'm sorry." Her voice came meek.

The cleric stared hard at her a moment, and Christine could almost hear the gibbet being prepared for her hanging. At last, the man seemed to come to some conclusion, and his features eased into a resigned but grim smile.

"It is unfortunate, but secrets often have a way of leaking out, I suppose. I never understood why the archdeacon would make the demand for silence, but he's not here to ask. The king sent for him, and I'm here in his stead. Now, about the ceremony…" He looked at Erik. "It is custom for a wedding to take place outside the church doors, but I assume that would not be to your preference?"

"You assume correctly," the Phantom nodded, not wanting to run the risk of being seen.

"If I may make a suggestion…?" Christine piped up softly, nervously.

Both men turned to look at her.

X

A few minutes later, the Phantom and Christine followed the cleric at a distance down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, I didn't mean –"

"Why would you ask such a fool question –?"

" _He_ told the tale –"

"You said you wouldn't say what you shouldn't –"

"Yes – I meant in _reading_ it –"

"I warned you of the dangers –"

"He knew I'd heard –"

"If he had not believed you, do you realize what might have happened –?"

"I thought speaking the story itself would be alright –"

"Did you really hear it on the street?"

He stopped and turned to her. A short pause elapsed, and she shook her head.

"I told you how I came to know the story. I read it, in a book that was written in my century."

He studied her intently, his eyes puzzled, wary, but wordlessly took her arm, and they resumed their walk in silence.

In the cathedral they joined the cleric, who stood beneath the huge window of colored glass, where Christine had asked for the ceremony to be held.

"Is it not a thing of beauty?" Père Arnould asked. "This window symbolizes the glorification of the Virgin Mary, each pane that makes up the rose depicting a judge, prophet, or king."

Christine stared at the monolithic window with the same wonder she had viewed it the first time, seeing that she'd been correct: the panes were even more beautiful with daylight shining through the leaded glass. But the greater part of her amazement lay in the knowledge that she was only minutes away from becoming Erik's wife.

Her earlier qualms melted away to nothing as she looked up at his beloved masked face, a kaleidoscope of colors showering upon them from the stained glass. His eyes shone, seeming almost iridescent in the fantasy of jewel-like tones. They stood within that peaceful glowing circle, and to her shock and delight, he took hold of her hands.

"Je Fantôme donne mon corps a toy, Christine, en loyal mari," he spoke the words instructed of him.

And she answered, "Et je la recoy."

"Je Christine donne mon corps a toy, Fantôme."

"Et je le recoy."

She watched wide-eyed as Erik produced a silver ring, pushing it partway onto her thumb.

"In the name of the Father…" the cleric intoned.

Erik moved the ring to her index finger.

"In the name of the Son…"

He repeated the gesture with her middle finger.

"In the name of the Holy Ghost…"

He brought the ring to her third finger and slid it past both knuckles to its final resting place.

"Amen," Erik whispered.

She stared in awe at the ring and then up into his eyes.

"I take you for my bride … Christine."

Her heart fluttered at his quiet claim, so sincere, and the soft glow in his eyes.

The cleric who instructed them throughout the ceremony brought it to a close, speaking in Latin words Christine could not understand, but she didn't need to. It was enough for her to know her Heavenly Father ordained this and their union would be recognized by the church. She felt as if she was floating and Erik's hands were all that anchored her to their intimate pool of iridescent lights. The cleric made the sign of the cross in the air between them, ending the blessing.

Christine did not have long to wonder if a sixteenth century wedding would conclude with a kiss. Erik leaned toward her, brushing his lips to hers in a chaste token of commitment that nevertheless set her pulse racing.

He stepped back from her and she looked up at him.

The cleric cleared his throat.

"I must beg your leave. I have duties to which I must attend before returning to my parish for the evening. Go in peace, my children."

Christine looked after his departing figure a moment then brought her eyes back to Erik.

"He is either very wise or very foolish to leave us here alone each night."

The words were inane in light of what just took place. But with the overwhelming reality that they were man and wife, that she was now _his bride_ , she could scarcely think.

"That is quite the conundrum," he said in mild amusement. "Explain."

"He is very foolish for leaving all the valuables at risk, and he is very wise for knowing that you will not resort to thievery and can be trusted."

His brow went up in incredulity at her confident reply.

"How can you be so sure?"

"You paid him in gold for the license, and much more than it was surely worth. If you meant to rob him, you wouldn't have done such a thing."

He chuckled at her logic. "Unless I plan to steal the gold back."

Her brow arched upward in worry. "Do you?"

"No," he said after a moment. "Anything of value is locked securely away and only the black powder can retrieve it. Or it is too large to carry off."

"How do you know this?"

"While you have been resting, I took the liberty of scouting the many chambers."

Her brows drew together. "Tell me you won't steal from this place. Promise me. Not only would it be wrong to steal from a house of God, but Père Arnould has been such a help to us. It wouldn't be right. I wouldn't feel right…"

Grimly he acknowledged her words, stroking his fingertips lightly over her frown.

"Rest easy, ma belle damoiselle. I will do nothing that gives you grief. This is our wedding night, after all, and thievery is far distant from my mind."

His velvet-edged words and touch made it difficult to breathe, causing her to flush with shy warmth. No longer must she turn away; no longer must she deny her body what it had been craving since the night of the Don Juan, even before that.

The blood that thrummed through her veins seemed to rush to her head and she clutched his arm suddenly, fearful she would collapse.

"Christine," he said in concern and searched her eyes and face intently. "You must rest. This has been too taxing for you."

"No, really, I'm fine."

Before she could further persuade him, he swung her up into his lean, muscled arms. Breathlessly she looked at him from beneath half-veiled lashes, deciding she liked it there better.

He walked with her to the corridor of rooms behind the cathedral and their temporary bedchamber.

"I will see about finding supper, something more substantial than bread and cheese. You have barely eaten since we arrived."

He moved into the chamber and stopped near the bed but did not set her down. She looked up at him in curiosity, again feeling faint by the hungry gleam and intensity that shone from his beautiful eyes. His arm beneath her back shifted, bringing her closer, and when his lips met hers, she gave a little sigh.

This kiss was not chaste, but it was tender, hinting of the passion to come. She pressed her fingers to his jaw, yielding her lips to his, parting them in invitation. His muscles contracted beneath her and he more firmly met her mouth, his tongue lightly touching hers. She swept her tongue into his mouth with a soft groan that was echoed in his.

He pulled away and looked at her in silent question, then set her carefully on the bed. She lay still, looking up at him.

"I will return shortly with our supper," he said. "Rest while you may."

His soft, low words tantalized, suggesting all manner of pleasures. Christine sat up, leaning against one arm, and watched him go.

While she awaited his return, her mind played back every moment at the Opera House, when he first taught her to need such passion, to the moment they were reunited in the forest and their stirring encounter in the lake, when she had felt his naked skin against hers.

Nervously she stood and unclasped the link of silver chains about her girdle. Should she remove the kirtle and approach him wearing only the long, clinging white undergown? Should she allow him to remove it? Strange, she had married in the dress she wore every day, yet did not regret the absence of a true wedding gown and all the luxuries that came with a formal ceremony. Indeed, she could not recall ever feeling such happiness as when she stood with Erik beneath the rose window in their illuminated circle of colored light and quietly exchanged vows.

She decided to remove the kirtle and laid it on the bed, her brow furrowing in thought to see how short and narrow the simple cot truly was. She looked to where their few belongings lay on the table and blushed with her bold decision.

Unrolling the pelts, Christine spread them over the floor beneath the shuttered window and pulled the pillow from the bed, laying it at one end. Deciding to test her handiwork, she laid on the furs, but the flagstones beneath were harder than the forest floor, and she stripped the cot of all bedding, using the blankets as a cushion beneath. Again she laid down, finding the result a marked improvement. She stared at the wooden shutters, popping up a third time to open them and quickly sat back down, cursing the lightheadedness that came over her with the abrupt act. Slowly she again reclined on what would become their marriage bed, and flushed with warmth at the thought.

She remained in that position for some time, dreaming of lying within Erik's embrace and gazing up at the stars. The sun soon set, the hazy blue of twilight filtering inside…

Heat flushed her face when she realized he could return at any second, and she again stood, not wishing him to find her in such brazen repose. She wished she could do something with her wild curls and settled for running her fingers through the strands and untangling them into some sort of order.

She took deep breaths, walking to the window and looking at the view beneath. The streets were now dark, very few torches lit the areas, and she wondered if Erik was below, wondered too, at the long delay…

She felt more expectant than nervous, though there was that, but she had been dreaming of this moment for months, _years,_ ever since her invisible teacher, her friend and idol, spoke to her from behind the walls and she wished he was a man. How she had longed for the kiss of an Angel, and how wicked she had felt for that wish!

Christine anxiously looked at the closed door. Surely, more than an hour had passed.

She moved that way and peeked outside the chamber, looking in both directions for any sign of her husband.

 _Her husband!_

A pleasurable glow filled her heart to acknowledge the change. At last, she had obtained what she most wanted. At last, she had been allowed to make her choice and follow through with it.

The smile that lifted her lips as she closed the door vanished in horror when a familiar shout came from outside. A shout of anguish.

 _Erik?!_

With no thought but to find him, Christine snatched up her cloak and raced from the chamber.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Translation of vows (if the French is wrong I apologize- I took it from actual historical documents of vows spoken in 1532, but over the centuries, grammar and spellings sometimes change…):**

 **"I, Phantom, give my body to you, Christine, in loyal matrimony."**

 **"And I receive it."**

 **"I, Christine, give my body to you, Phantom."**

 **"And I receive it."**

 **A bit of trivia – Before the Court of Trent and the Tametsi decree issued in 1563, there were many instances of clandestine marriages between bride and groom conducted with a simple exchange of vows, without an officiating priest or witnesses. At this time such unofficial ceremonies were considered valid (though hard to prove, which is one reason the decree came into being and became law. However, receiving a blessing from a priest was still sought after, even if the couple married without one). Also, there were recorded instances of buying a license to waive the banns if the marriage needed to happen swiftly.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews – I'm glad you guys are enjoying this…chapter deserves the rating. ;-) Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter XIV**

Fearing the worst, with no idea of what that could entail in this unfamiliar century, and forcing her mind not to conjure up ghastly images of barbaric weaponry, Christine hastened through the dark corridor lit by one torch. She had heard his distressed cry come from outside the window, so knew Erik was not in the building and searched for the nearest exit door on that side of the wall.

Had the cruel Vicomte of this era found him? Was her beloved new husband being tortured even now?

Thankful no servants were in the area to evade, Christine sped along the inside corridor. At last she came across an iron gate leading to what appeared to be a courtyard in that it was outside and surrounded by four stone walls. But rather than be filled with open space, as she had seen most, this one was dense with high bushes, almost as tall as she, and looked more like a spacious overgrown garden. Not a maze, the pathway appeared straightforward and simple, and she walked along its narrow trail peering left and right down the rows that branched off, attempting to see what the shadows there concealed. A pair of torches were mounted to the far wall opposite, the distant light producing the faintest orange glow on the path she took and those areas not blocked by tall shrubbery, the darkness opaque where the torches' glow did not reach.

"Erik – _Phantom_ – are you out here?" she called in a stage whisper.

After several uncertain steps, she hesitated. Only the whir of night insects filled the answering silence. The sun had barely set, not a soul within sight, unlike the Paris of her century where night's descent brought the citizens to congregate to public areas of entertainment, such as the Opera House. In this era the entire city felt deserted after sundown, as if a curfew was being followed. She wished she knew her history, but Madame had instructed her sparingly in such knowledge, her girlhood teachings selective and dating only as far back as the seventeenth century, with the emergence of the first opera.

Christine felt adrift in this unknown epoch.

The complete silence gave her an eerie feeling, as if she were all alone in the world, and intensified her fears that perhaps she was. Had Erik been pulled back through the rip in time, even without the stones nearby? Is that what the dreadful shout had been about?

Briefly she closed her eyes in disgust. She could not allow herself to think like this. Surely there was a more valid reason for his distress, and she prayed the truth was not just as appalling. She continued her search, straining her eyes to see. Ahead, in the distance, she heard a faint groan, and her heart skipped a beat.

 _Erik?!_

She hastened her steps, looking side to side toward each opening between bushes. She almost missed him, his ebony clothing, mask, and hair bleeding into the thick darkness. Had he not lifted his head, so that she detected the pallor of his face, she would have hurried past the enclosure where he appeared to have fallen.

In bewildered fear, she looked to where his dim form half sprawled – half sat on the ground near the end row, concealed by bushes on three sides. An overturned bowl lay near his feet, berries scattered, and as she drew closer, she could see that he was clutching his head in pain.

"Oh, dear God – Erik! Are you hurt?"

She ran the last several steps and fell to her knees beside him, putting her hand to his shoulder. He gave no response and she clasped her other hand to his opposite shoulder, moving him in an attempt to see his face. He kept his head lowered, his fingers clutching his hair at his scalp.

"Erik - please!"

At the insistence of her hushed plea, he groggily lifted his eyes. They could barely be seen, but she recognized the shimmer of tears and felt his despair.

"Swear to me…"

"Anything," she agreed, "only tell me what you need."

"Never to tell… secrets…of the Angel in Hell…"

She sat back in surprise, never releasing her hold on his shoulders. In his faint stilted words she recognized the tortured echo of what now seemed ages ago, in the lair.

"Erik…?" she asked with a mix of hope that he had discovered the truth and desolation to see him in such torment at doing so.

His eyelids flickered harshly as if he was losing consciousness and she shook him.

"Erik!"

He let out an agonized moan, calling out hoarsely on the Divine to release him from his damnable punishment and fell forward, his brow flush against her shoulder. Feeling no sharp ridges of leather press into her skin, she realized he had torn off his mask, it being too dark to tell at first, also realized he must be suffering from another of his horrific spells. The anguish he suffered was palpable, the memories that tore at him clearly trying to get a foothold and bringing with them the most excruciating of physical and mental torments. She had never seen him in such distress as when these black experiences overtook him.

If such evil attacks were the result of the onset of regaining his memory then she no longer wished for the occurrence. Perhaps it was best he remain ignorant of the past, always Erik of the Forest, never again her Maestro and teacher. She never wanted him to suffer, wished only to relieve his pain, but felt helpless to understand what that would entail…

Of one thing she was certain. They must not remain here for fear of being discovered. She could not rely on their continued solitude and must get him back to the relative safety of the bedchamber.

She cradled her hands against his head, lifting his brow from her shoulder.

"Erik, please listen to me." He could barely hold up his head and she continued to hold it, trying to get him to look at her. "We have to leave this place before someone hears you and finds us. Can you stand and walk?"

His eyes were heavy-lidded, as if he had difficulty keeping them open, and he gave no response. She trembled so in fear of the mystery of what was happening to him that she could not give him aid to stand.

"Oh, Erik…" She drew him back to her warmth and held him close.

Fearful to lift her voice and be heard should anyone enter the vicinity, she resorted to humming softly near his ear, though in the nocturnal silence, even that seemed extremely loud. She hoped the servants kept to their rooms and their beds, where she assumed them to be, and had no preference for open shutters at the windows.

After a time, she felt him gradually begin to relax, his low groans less frequent.

"Christine…?"

At his faint whisper, the first he truly acknowledged her presence, she felt a measure of relief, but would not be entirely at ease until she had him safely back in the bedchamber. A fleeting nervousness tinged with expectancy warmed her blood to realize that from this night forth they would spend all evenings together, engaging in the mysteries of what men and women did in the marriage bed. But the realization of her imminent womanhood – _wifehood_ – soon burgeoning into bloom was not enough to eclipse her present concern for her Angel. All girlish anxieties instantly fled when she heard the distinct sound of a step on the paving along the perimeter of the building…

Footsteps that seemed to come closer…

Fear for her beloved had her grasp him more tightly in her arms.

"Why?" he whispered. "Tell me! Why…?!"

Christine did not think he was talking to her. His next words confirmed it.

"The world showed no compassion to me!"

His tone grew strident, grating words between his teeth as he had that long-ago night, and she looked sharply toward the entrance of the deep alcove, fearing at any moment they might be discovered as their past played out in his mind.

" _Shhh_ ," she tried to hush him, her entire body trembling and tears glazing her eyes. " _Please, say no more_ …"

A dark shape blocked out the dim orange glow of their sole source of light, and Christine inhaled in shock, not having heard the footsteps draw so near. Her hands instinctively tightened against Erik, though in the face of danger she could do little to protect him.

"Madame?"

The unfamiliar title stunned her, to hear her addressed as Erik's wife, and it was a moment before she realized the identity of the newcomer.

"Père," she whispered with a measure of relief and uncertainty to see the kindly cleric there.

"I saw you run past and followed. Is he unwell?"

Loyalty to Erik kept her silent, but she had to say something to explain their presence at night, in this dark jungle of a garden.

"He gets pains in his head. They can be severe, and strike quite suddenly."

Silently she pleaded with Erik not to speak out, fearful that his frantic words of the tragedy he caused in their century would cast suspicion on them – especially if he mentioned the opera and other things that did not yet exist.

"I have herbs that can help," Père Arnould said, coming closer. "I, too, am oft troubled by pains that beset my eyes, and will make a poultice."

"Merci, you are very kind…" She hesitated but knew with her slender weight she alone would never be able to get Erik to their room. "If you could assist me in helping him inside?"

"Of course, Madame."

Together they managed to bring Erik to his feet, each giving support with one of his arms around their necks. Thankfully Erik had slipped into a semi-awake trance, speaking nothing, only moaning low when jostled too sharply. As they brought him to the main path, the glow of distant torches cast dim illumination upon his bare face. The cleric winced at the damage and deformity wrought to tender flesh, but his reaction seemed to stem more from sympathy than disgust.

"One moment." Christine carefully pulled Erik's arm from around her neck, leaving the cleric to support him while she retraced their steps to the darkened end of the row. On hands and knees, she felt along the ground until she found what she was searching for and returned to the path. The cleric grimly looked at the mask she held.

"He doesn't feel comfortable without it," she explained, unsure why she felt a need to defend her action.

"But you are undaunted by his appearance," Père Arnould said more than asked.

"It took a tragedy to realize the truth." She again wrapped Erik's arm behind her neck, holding to his hand. "I foolishly listened to those who wanted only to harm him. I thought I lost him, that I would never see him again, and having miraculously found him I understood such flaws didn't matter."

Together they struggled to the chamber room, Erik insensible between them, barely able to move his legs and needing to be partially dragged. He bore no spare flesh on his bones; she could feel his ribs against her palm she pressed there for balance. But he was trimly muscled, his height considerable, enough to make the task difficult for a slight woman and a frail priest.

"You are wise for one so young," their host said, continuing their conversation.

"I wish that were so, Père, but such knowledge came at a heavy price, and in so many ways I am still ignorant and uncertain of what to do."

"Trust in your heart and trust in God. It is from there all love stems. Neither will fail you in understanding the path you must take."

Somberly she pondered his instructions as they approached the bedchamber. They struggled to lay Erik on the large pelt she had spread across the floor, and the cleric excused himself to see to the poultice, promising to return soon.

Christine knelt beside her insensible bridegroom and undid the clasp of his cloak, pulling it away from his body to try and make him more comfortable. She unlaced his boots, pulling them from his feet and brought the heavy blanket from the bed over his prone body. He wore no doublet, only the loose black tunic he had donned for his nocturnal exploits, and she noted it laced at the top near his throat. She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth in nervous consideration, before unfastening the ties and slightly edging the material aside to allow for easier breathing. Not wishing to move her hand away, she felt drawn to touch him and lightly traced the pads of her fingers against the strong column of his throat. Such a beautiful instrument, his voice, and she wondered if he felt this same tingle of warmth when he had held her onstage and so softly stroked her neck, if he felt also that he was caressing her voice as she felt she caressed his.

She smiled and did not stop, her fingertips gently dipping into the hollow of his neck, brushing against the steady beats of his pulse and drifting further, along his chest, tantalized by the heat of his skin and the short dusting of hairs that curled there, touching him until the linen of his shirt stopped her.

The faint knock at the door made her start in guilty shock before she recalled that she had every right to touch her husband…though perhaps not without his knowledge.

Wishing for a breeze to blow through the room and cool her hot cheeks, she hurried to the door to let the cleric inside.

He stood on the threshold and handed her a damp cloth bundle that emitted the aroma of musky herbs and mint.

"Forgive me, I cannot stay. I only returned tonight to collect something I left behind. Will you be alright here alone?"

"Yes, I have dealt with these episodes of his before." Now that Erik was safe within the room, away from any prying eyes, she felt more at ease. "Again, thank you, you have been of great help to us."

"You are to the monsieur what Esmeralda was to Quasimodo," he said pensively, "though your heart is not as vain, and I sense there is more than benevolence or fondness that leads you to care."

"In that you are correct, Père. Much more...I-I love him." It was the first she'd admitted it aloud.

He nodded sagely. "I advise you to tell him of your feelings."

She nodded and looked down, away from his intelligent eyes that very well may see through her.

She could not tell him, not when Erik no longer returned her love.

"I will keep you both in my prayers."

Once he left, Christine closed the door and went to Erik. She was thankful that at least the pain had eased enough for her Angel to sleep, as he seemed to be doing, and knelt down beside him, brushing the hair from his eyes. She laid the damp poultice over his brow. He did not stir.

Wide awake and uncertain what to do – perhaps she should take the cot so as not to disturb him? – she rose to her feet and removed her cloak to use for a cover. In the light of one candle, she was dismayed to see that soil had soaked into the cloth where she had crawled around on the ground. There was nothing for it, her chemise was filthy, and she could not lie down in such a state.

Casting a quick glance toward the bedding to confirm Erik still slept, she pulled the thin gown over her head, shivering from the sudden chill to her flesh. Quickly she donned her cloak again for modesty and to provide warmth. Using the basin of water earlier brought to her and a cloth, she perched at the edge of the bed and scrubbed at the caked-in dirt to the best of her ability. She also noted a tinge of blue – no doubt from the berries Erik had been collecting when the pains struck him. She wished for a bar of the fragrant soap from the opera house and wondered if they even had such things in this era.

At last, reasonably satisfied with the results using what little had been provided for her, she put the wet cloth aside, noting her chemise was now just as wet – too wet to wear certainly. After brief consideration, she hung the garment over the open shutter of the window, hoping the night breeze, though chill, would dry the thin linen quickly. Was that even possible without heat? There were women hired to take care of such mundane matters at the opera house, Christine had never needed to learn, but now wished she had taken more interest in how such tasks were accomplished. To sing, to dance, to act, she could manage that well, but with regard to the little matters of daily importance she was sadly ignorant…

"Christine."

His voice came as a thin whisper but shook her as if he had shouted in her ear. She whirled away from the window to face him, clutching the edges of her cloak close against her breasts.

.

 **xXx**

.

"You're awake," she said nervously. "How do you feel?"

The Phantom pulled the damp cloth away from his head, thankful that the upper part of his body remained in shadow, the moon's glow not reaching that point. A candle burned near the cot but was too far away to shed light on his greatest shame.

"My mask."

She hesitated. "You don't need to wear it for me."

"My mask." He held out his hand for the covering, his tone more insistent.

"Really, you shouldn't wear something so constricting tonight. Are you still in pain?"

"Christine!"

She sighed. "It's behind you."

He struggled to raise himself on his side enough to grope behind him, his fingertips brushing the strip of leather which he grasped eagerly into his hand. However, his head still ached, though not as viciously as before, and he took her words to heart, refraining from slipping the mask around his head. It was dark enough that she could not see.

He looked across the room to the window where she stood, noticing she still wore her cloak.

"Why do you stand there? You're shivering. Blow out the candle and come to bed."

"I…alright."

She moved toward the cot and bent to extinguish the flame. He did not instruct her to close the shutters, not wishing for her to stumble in the dark, the moon's glow present but not intrusive. She approached the bed of fur pelts and stood at the opposite side of where he reclined. Puzzled by her reluctance, he waved to the empty area.

"Take off your cloak and lie down, Christine."

In the block of moonlight where she stood, the dim glow painted her face in blue and silver shadow but he swore he could see her blush.

"I prefer to keep it on."

"Nonsense, you cannot sleep in comfort in that."

"I…" Her unease elevated. " _Can't_."

"Why the devil not?"

"My undergown was soiled," she whispered, "I found it necessary to clean it."

His eye caught something white that fluttered, and he glanced toward the shutter and what hung there, coming to the full realization of what she did not say. The knowledge made him burn, but he managed to retain his calm and turned his attention back to the woman who hours ago had become his wife.

"Take off the cloak, Christine." His directive came out as a gentle murmur, a silken entreaty she could hardly refuse.

She clasped her cloak frantically at her throat and breasts to keep the material flush against her.

"I will turn aside," he somberly reassured and did so, presenting his back to her, though every heated instinct within bade him to watch her disrobe and unveil her sylphlike beauty, to then take her in his arms and hold her close against him. The stimulating memory of the night in the lake taunted, and after an eternal silence followed by the swift rustle of cloth, his words came out sharper than he intended.

"Are you at last finished?"

"Yes," she replied softly, shyly. "I'm sorry."

Her apology had no place and made him feel worse. "Never mind," he said more quietly. He shifted to lie on his back, the pain less pressing that way, and brought the poultice against his eyes, more to curb temptation than for comfort.

"Is the pain any better?" she asked after a moment.

"It is manageable."

Another brief silence passed.

"Would it help if I sang to you?"

"You need your rest."

"I don't mind…I sang to you in the garden, and it seemed to help."

"I remember. I also remember you calling me Erik, more than once."

She gasped as if caught in a misdeed.

"Yes…"

"It did not seem a mistake. You addressed me as if you believed me to be that man."

"I…I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"The truth. Never anything less."

He pulled the poultice from his eyes and turned his head to look at her. In the shadows, his eyes were sharp, able to see more than most, and he noticed the tension on her face, sensed her struggle within herself. She lay on her side, holding the blanket up to her chin and stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He squirmed inside, hoping her eyesight in the darkness was not as precise. True, she had seen his face twice now, but that was twice too often.

"Why do you persist in calling me by that name?" His words came quiet and confused.

"You remind me of him," she said after a slight hesitation. "I've explained why. It just comes naturally to call you that. I never meant to offend you."

"This Erik…your Angel of Music?"

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"And when you call me by that name, do you see him? Or do you see me?"

"You," she replied, her voice sincere. "Only ever you."

"Very well." Strangely the name had begun to settle with him, as it had when she first called him Phantom, relatable and no longer offensive.

"You mean - you don't mind?"

He detected the hopeful note in her voice, light with what sounded like relief.

"If it is your wish."

"Thank you. It does come easier than Phantom."

"Go to sleep now. We could both use the rest."

She wriggled slightly beneath the blanket as if to get more comfortable.

"Goodnight, Erik. Sleep well."

"And you."

He watched her large, dark eyes fall shut, watched her for some time, before he too closed his eyes.

x

Christine kept her eyes closed but remained awake for some time, guilt eating at her for not telling him the truth of his identity when given the perfect chance. Belief that she was doing the right thing, for his sake, compelled her decision. When she had earlier stood by the window she recalled that his last black episode in the forest occurred when they'd been speaking of the past. A past she continually brought up, especially since they arrived in Paris, in the hope of sparking a memory. Now she feared that stirring such recollections brought about the torturous spells...and yet…

He deserved to know. He desired the truth, wanted nothing less. Yet it was doubtful he would even believe her claims, after his reaction when she told him she came from a life nearly four hundred years into the future, so wasn't keeping mute the best option?

At some point during her bitter self-chastisements and hopeful reassurances she at last fell into a fitful sleep. Even in light slumber she was aware of the chill air, burrowing deeper into the furs, until at some point, she felt the chill no more, only a heat that branded her bare flesh. She moved closer to the welcome warmth, stretching out her arm to embrace the heat and draw it nearer...

And came fully awake when a large hand slipped around her waist. She could not see even the tiniest detail of his face in the shadows, the moon in its course having traveled lower along their bedding, but she sensed he was awake. Embarrassed that she had made him into a pillow, she began to scoot away.

"No," he whispered, tightening his hold on her. "It is alright. Need I remind you, Madame Phantom, we are married…"

The reminder and teasing moniker served to put her slightly at ease and made her smile.

"But this is rather odd – me like this and you…" She broke off in sudden realization of what she said, very aware of his large hand searing her waist against the blanket.

"I can remedy that if you wish." His voice was raw silk, dark and seductive, and her heart raced a nervous beat.

"My dress?"

"I was referring to a change in my appearance."

"Oh…" Her reply came as a faint breath. "Oh!"

It wouldn't be the first time she had slept in bed with him naked – the night he saved her from expiring in the lake he had stripped down to nothing then too, but even with the blanket she now used as a barrier held between them, she felt vulnerable and uncertain in her own nakedness…

Nonetheless, as strangely as it had begun, this was _their_ _wedding night_. She was foolish to feel as if she must hide her body from him. Certainly he had seen her nude before, at the lake, but she might feel less inhibited if he at least removed his shirt and wondered if she was bold enough to suggest it…

"Christine, I want you." His husky whisper tore through her every nerve ending, leaving tingles that raised the fine hairs on her body as their slumberous mood abruptly altered to one of scintillating heat. "I have lain here beside you, unable to sleep for wanting you and having you so close, knowing you are now mine…"

His words elevated her pulse and she found it difficult to draw a steady breath.

"I need you like I need air to breathe…" His lips brushed her temple. "Tell me, Christine, tell me you want me as well."

What seemed ages ago at the Opera House, she had run in frightened confusion from such encounters with him, when she could _think_ to run, once the drugged state of mind his seduction caused had faded. She had been anxious about the mysteries of the flesh of which she had been so curious, taught by Madame that she should never engage in scandal that could get her with child, at the risk of being dismissed from the chorus. But this was no affair, he was her husband, and she would be a liar to state anything contrary to what lay locked securely within her heart. There was no longer a reason to run, no longer a reason for secrets…

No longer a reason not to learn the mysteries of what lay beyond the point of no return that so deeply tantalized…

"Yes, Erik, I want you," she admitted quietly, closing her eyes.

"Is it to me you speak, Christine…?" His words were laced with frustration and doubt. "For I will have you no other way. I hunger for you, but will take the place of no other man or Angel, in your bed or in your heart."

Her heart quickened at his earnest plea. Was he declaring his _love_? She was too nervous to ask in the event that she was mistaken and did not wish to deal with that disappointment. She had not gone into this union ignorant; he had stated his expectations before they were wed. He wanted her body to possess, wanted to shield her body with his in protection, but he did not require her heart that, unknown to him, had always been his. Nor did he wish to give her his heart in return. She must content herself with only what he offered, and request no more than that.

Slowly she opened her eyes. "It is to you I speak, the man from the forest. My captor and protector, and now my husband…"

The words scarcely left her throat when his cool lips covered hers, softly urging her surrender. She needed no such persuasion, letting go of the blanket to press her hands to the back of his head as she opened to him.

The Phantom smoothed his palm over the thick blanket and along her slender form, his senses filled with the very essence of Christine, his fair damsel. She was so beautiful, so desirable, her kiss as fragrant as honey, her lips and tongue shy yet seeking and warming to his exploration.

From what she told him, he knew her to be untried, but oddly, though he only had hazy memories of the very few and brief former trysts and none with virgins, her silky skin beneath his hands felt like nothing ever experienced until she entered his life. He could almost believe that those secrets of the flesh had been concealed from him as well, his only knowledge of physical intercourse that which he somehow retained in his mind that had so often propelled the dreams he had played out with this enticing woman...fantastical dreams of which he would now indulge to a most satisfying extent. His palm tingled with the sensation of her satin flesh, chilled, but quickly warming to the strokes of his hand along her small shoulders and down her slim arms.

He drew his lips against her jaw down to her neck, gently suckling flesh, and brought his attentions still lower, dipping his head beneath the blanket to capture one rosy nipple in a kiss. He felt her tremble and opened his lips to slip the fragile bud into his mouth, the taste of her sweet, while gently cupping the smooth globe that fit so perfectly into his hand. If he thought her softness earlier explored could not be exceeded, the skin of her breasts was impossibly softer, like the petals of a rose, and he took her deeper into his mouth, relishing her taste and the feel of her beneath his tongue, the pearl-like bud that grew so hard yet remained so soft…

She gasped, her legs parting slightly in invitation. Never had his dreams to possess her felt so tremulous, so tender as the reality of lying with her. He had the oddest sensation that he had known her for all of one lifetime, desired her for one small eternity. How could that be when he only met her a little over a fortnight ago?

Christine was lost to the whirlpool of sensation Erik aroused inside her. With each gentle pull of her nipple, with each firm suckle of her breast, she felt an unfamiliar pressure build low in the center of her body, a mild, twisting sort of current, and felt warm moisture seep between her thighs. She had experienced the latter sensation before, when in his seductive embrace, but never to such an intense degree. At one point, she felt she might come apart and pressed her hands along his upper back, pressing him closer, as if that would help to keep herself together. He had taught her the existence of passion in his lair and onstage, and now in their marriage bed he was teaching her to understand its deepest precepts…

And she wanted to know everything, wanted to feel the fire he had so often promised, to burn in such bliss…

His hand, now warm, slipped along her waist and stomach, his fingertips brushing her most secret curls, and her eyes went wide when he slipped his touch along her hidden entrance. She felt him shudder against her, matching the tremors of her own body.

"God, Christine, you are so wet for me," he rasped and she moaned when his finger slid all the way inside, then let out a sharp gasp as he softly moved within. "Do not fear, my dear, I feel as new to this as you…"

She sensed confusion in his voice, but was not surprised. Erik had cried out to her that final night in his lair that he had been denied all joys of the flesh, contrary to what he falsely believed in his escapades as Le Masque. And then she could no longer form lucid thought of such things that failed to matter as his finger slowly danced within, continuing its sweet torture.

"Ma belle damoiselle," he purred huskily, "I want you…I need you…I need to make you mine…"

In answer, she again pulled him closer, tightening her grip on the back of his shoulders. His lips covered hers, and her tongue brushed against them, seeking entrance, entrance he readily gave a short few moments, before pulling away to shed his black linen hose. Nearly as naked as she, but it wasn't enough – and insistently she tugged the bottom of his tunic upward, any modesty for herself or for him long forgotten. He helped her, wrenching the clothing from his body and throwing it aside with the same disregard before again joining her beneath the blanket.

Her face and body flushed with a shy nervousness, but more than that, a need. In the shadows she could not see him well, only the outline of his face and form, but the heat of his body drew her to him and at last, pressed flesh to flesh, they both swiftly inhaled – she, in welcome surprise to feel his hard, toned flesh once more pressed to her and not one bit cold as it had been in the lake. He – in hungered want to realize the extent of the silkiness of her skin and finally have her lie willing beneath him.

His palm cupped beneath her slender thigh, pulling her leg wider to admit him entrance, and with little thought or presence of mind he positioned his shaft at the doorway to heaven and pushed deeply and swiftly inside.

She cried out at the same time he acknowledged a barrier had been broken, the path into her body snug and warm but resistant at first. He looked at her in troubled shock, feeling her entire body tense and seeing the lines of pain that crossed her brow.

"I have hurt you," he whispered in remorse.

"I expected it."

"You _expected_ me to hurt you?"

At his wounded words, she opened her eyes to see his were full of confusion.

"It is the nature of these things, the first time. But surely you knew…?"

Erik of the Opera House must know such things, he knew so much about the ways of passion – surely he would know. She had learned that bleak tidbit through eavesdropping, and surely he also must have overheard such information at some point. But in his persona as Erik of the Forest, perhaps he had never been told? Or perhaps he no longer retained the knowledge, as he had forgotten so much else…

"I'm alright." She smoothed her palms against his cheeks, and felt him rear back a little in shock to feel her hand upon his damaged flesh. His defensive action did not deter her and she kept her hands firmly in place. "Please, just be still a moment more." The ache was intense, a burn that seared inside her flesh, his fullness stretching her unmercifully.

She felt his thumb brush away the tear that had leaked from her eye, and oh so slowly he dipped his head, not moving any other part of him to caress her lips in gentle kisses.

"You are so brave, so beautiful, ma damoiselle…" he whispered, pulling back. "I can see this hurts you. I have no wish to do that."

Fearing he might leave her, she clung more tightly to his shoulders. She had waited too long for this night to surrender it to a pesky bit of distress that she knew also from eavesdropping would soon fade.

"It is natural for a virgin," she stated again. "The chorus girls spoke of this. It will pass."

The Phantom wondered if anyone had ever told him such a significant truth, wished he could remember, but should have known with how delicate and soft she was to exercise more caution. In his eagerness to claim her, he had not thought clearly, had not thought at all. Repentant for hurting his gentle bride, he remained as immobile as possible, though every fiber of his being urged him to move inside her tight walls, to discover the extent of such heated bliss…

 _Discover?_ Had he not known such intimacy before? The hazy recollections of the past suggested it so, but he could no longer recall the experiences, those vague accounts feeling more as if they belonged to someone else's memories…which made no sense at all.

He dipped his head to her neck below her ear, suckling flesh, and was rewarded with her gasp, not of pain but of pleasure. Carefully moving his head, keeping his lower body as still as possible, he traced a trek to the breast he had not yet tenderly ravaged and remedied the oversight.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, her fingers moving to thread through his hair, and he felt her tension melt away, her desire again evident. Her lyrical moans were the most beautiful music, and slowly he began to move, pulling away and pushing back into her, creating a sensual rhythm that her hips soon matched.

She was fire…she was heaven…he knew bliss in taking her and hell in the sure knowledge that he was too near the edge. He wanted this to last forever, this intertwining of their secrets, this heated passion, and cursed his wretched body when his release came sooner than expected. His entire form tightened and convulsed as he plunged into her warmth a few final times, then collapsed against her, still managing to keep much of his weight on his arms so as not to crush her.

When he collected himself to speak, he lifted himself enough to look into her face, noting her breaths came just as heavy. She looked a trifle confused and uncertain, but smiled softly up at him.

"Are you alright, sweet wife?"

"I think so. Yes…" She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. "Did I please you?"

He drew his brows together, thinking instead he should ask that of her, though the answer was quite clear – he did not. And as he slowly withdrew from her body, he noticed her wince as if the action brought pain.

"Immeasurably," he said at last, pulling the blanket away.

"What are you doing?" she asked in sudden shyness, gripping the blanket before he could move it past their waists.

"I want to ensure that you're truly alright."

"Oh, but no – really, you mustn't -"

"I am to blame. I will see what I have done."

"Erik!"

He won the tug of war with the blanket, ripping the edge from her tightly curled fingers and pulling the cover the rest of the way down. The darkness was not absolute, his eyes sharp and well adjusted, and he frowned when he saw the result of his desire…

He had expected to see a bruise or two, but never blood.

Horrified by what he'd done yet not wanting to alarm her, the Phantom reached for the bowl on the floor beside the bed and dipped the cloth he had used for a poultice in it, wringing it out. Gently he tried to position her legs a little wider though she resisted.

"Christine – allow me to do this for you," His warning note ended in a plea, and she went completely still.

He tenderly stroked the cloth along the inside of her thighs and at her thatch of curls, cleaning away all evidence of his cruel desire.

"I swear I never meant to harm you." He lowered his head to brush his lips against the inside of her thigh.

She gasped and the muscle in her leg tensed, though she did not pull away.

"I would never willfully harm you, Christine."

"I – I know that. Please don't think…oh!"

Her words trailed away into a sharper gasp as he brushed his lips against the bottom of her short damp curls in a second penitent kiss. Her fragrance combined with his seed and the tang of herbs from the poultice filled his senses, the aroma satisfying and one he would wish to experience often. He climbed up the pelt to stretch out beside her on the fur.

Her eyes shimmered like dark glass as she turned on her side toward him, her head nestled on the long pillow they shared, the look on her face one of dazed wonder. He brought the blanket up over them both, and clasped her hand, raising it to hold against his lips.

"I hope you have not come to regret taking me as a husband," he whispered against her knuckles.

"Never," she reassured him swiftly.

He looked at her a long moment.

"It happens only the first time, this…discomfort for a virgin?"

"Yes…" her response came bold, yet still shy, "but I need not remind you, I am no longer a virgin."

Another span of silence elapsed.

"Would you be willing, perhaps tomorrow night…?"

"Yes, Erik." She shifted her body closer, bringing her other hand up to cradle his unflawed cheek. "I would."

And with that tender and earnest response, she pressed her lips to his, silencing any further doubts in his mind.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, dear Erik…he does have a lot to learn (difficult when he has very little memory to call his own), but I'm confident he will succeed. ;-) And look- no cliffie! Aren't I nice - it's my Christmas present to you - haha. Thank you again for the reviews! If at times Erik seems a little OOC from the way I first wrote him, there is a reason, it is deliberate, and in the next chapter much of the mystery that has many of you scratching your heads will be revealed… ;-)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) As promised, answers to much of the mystery are revealed in this chapter (and remember, dear phriends – this** ** _is_** **very much a fantasy ;-)). (To better understand this chapter it might help to go back and read the conversation Christine had with Tobias in ch. 6...) - and now...  
**

* * *

 **Chapter XV**

.

Lillith sat at the edge of the pond and dropped petals, one by one, into the shimmering pool. She smiled maliciously with each ruined shred of velvet red blossom as it disturbed the placid water, forming ripples that spread out into rings of violent disorder.

Erik…Christine…Raoul…Frederick…

…all of their lives soon to be destroyed.

"Lillith, her majesty would speak with you at once."

At the lilting voice of authority, Lillith turned to see Jareal, the queen's personal assistant. With raven black hair and an exotic beauty that all the queen's servants possessed, she stared down her nose at Lillith with the lofty arrogance she had come to expect from the entirety of her kind…

And all because of her sister's disgrace.

She sighed and tossed the decimated rose into the water, then stood to follow Jareal through the floral forest that was their home within Brocéliande, and to the evergreen bower where the queen resided. Invisible to mortals who erroneously thought their race long vanished, they and their realm rested within the midst of the great forest, their voices if heard by humans comparable to the quiet murmur of a stream or to the whisper of fronds.

On a crystal throne encrusted with precious jewels in every color of the heavenly rainbow, Queen Viviane, leader of the Fae, sat in all her luminescent glory. Known by mortals as the Lady of the Lake, it was she who gave Excalibur to King Arthur centuries ago, and likewise tricked him into entrusting her with the dark magic through the young Merlin, then turned and used it against them. Eternally young and fair as all those of their race, her eyes were like starlight and glowed with centuries of wisdom. Her long silver hair shimmered with iridescence like the light of first dawn and hung as a mantle about her hips. The gown she wore shimmered as a mirror with cerulean tones, reflecting her unique beauty.

Lillith's true countenance of fair hair and violet eyes paled next to her queen's splendor, but in one area they were alike. Their hatred of humankind – and for Lillith, one family in particular.

"My Queen," Lillith said, lowering herself in a low, graceful bow while spreading her arms out to each side, overcome and a little anxious that her sovereign would seek her out. "You wish to speak with me?"

"I know of your shifting the two worlds in time." Queen Viviane's words came fluid and smooth, but Lillith sensed a hint of anger there. "For what purpose have you interfered with these mortals and without my permission?"

Lillith recalled her fortuitous meeting with Christine Daae on the path outside the Chateau de Martinique. She had worn the glamour of a sweet young girl, a disguise that often brought unwary mortals into her trap. Few had reason to suspect the innocent charm of a little child.

Enticing Christine to visit the Megaliths of Carnac had been simple, as had tripping her so that she would fall and cut her hand. Blood was imperative in the spell to send her back through time, since she had been fully aware. For the twisted man, Erik, such an act had been unnecessary, so deep in wounded sleep had he been after the mob's vicious attack five levels below the Opera House.

"The woman is the intended of the de Chagny lord whose ancestor captured my sister and kept her for a season," Lillith explained, working to keep the quiver that coursed through her form absent from her voice. "Shailene has never been the same since your soldiers found and brought her back to us."

"Then it is vengeance that guides you?"

"That, and a desire to please my queen and make restitution for the sins of my family, if it is at all possible."

Viviane frowned at the reminder of Shailene's humiliation.

For the advanced race of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, to be captured by man was the worst fate, once thought impossible. Indeed, a Fae had to be near willing. In all records throughout the last ten thousand years, only Shailene had been tricked and fallen victim, namely to the arrogant de Changy curiosity and charm. For a Fae, upon rescue, to wish to remain with a human and plead for that outcome was unforgivable. Lillith also suffered unjustly for her sister's crime, ostracized by their kind. The Fae she loved had denounced Lillith and told her he could not trust that she would not also betray them. For half a century after the heinous infraction occurred, he still refused even to speak with her.

"I understand why you have separated the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and the woman, to give him great sorrow when he finds her missing, and indeed it has. He is beside himself with grief and worry. But what of the masked man with the scarred face? For what purpose have you altered his reality? Why did you not leave things as they were? In all likelihood, he would have soon died."

"It is true, the mortal, Erik, lay at death's door between worlds. I healed his deepest wounds, those that could prove fatal, and sent him to the sixteenth century before I sent the woman, first clouding his perception of his identity with a memory spell and placing false memories in his mind so that he and all those who know Le Masque would believe Erik is that man. The true Le Masque lies trapped in the Phantom's place, with only his aide to know it – I blinded her to the truth with the same spell. The Giry woman thinks it is Erik she tends and keeps hidden from the gendarmes. I found it fortunate that Le Masque also was badly wounded the night of the raid. His wounds I did not heal," she smirked. Indeed, she had placed him in a position that violence would be inflicted, turning a few of his less than loyal men against him and blotting out that memory as well.

Lillith was quite pleased with her work. While crafting her wily plan, she had gone through the annals of time and to her great fortune found a descendant that favored Le Masque, almost identical in appearance. Le Masque also suffered from a deformity on the right side of his face, perhaps passed along to his descendant of the 19th century - The Phantom, whose malady was much more severe. Yet a perverse sense of false pride and self-loathing along with their vulnerable need to circumvent a derogatory reaction from the masses led both men to wear a mask, which had worked splendidly for Lillith. Indeed, it seemed with the manner in which everything fell into place that her plan to destroy the same family within two epochs of time was predestined to succeed.

Once returned to their lives, _if_ that should ever happen, Erik and Christine would not recall a thing. And if perchance they should remember, better yet, tell of their experience, they would be thought to have gone mad, as had happened to a few mortals in centuries past while shifting. But that outcome was very rare, as was the idea that they would return. Lillith was determined to chain them to the century in which they now dwelt for the rest of their natural pathetic lives.

"So you would _help_ these humans?" Viviane scoffed. "How does that make restitution for past offenses?"

Lillith knew the queen had once been betrayed by a man, making her look the fool and for love, a mistake for which humankind had been paying for centuries. Since that day she despised them, male mortals especially, taking profound pleasure in upsetting their lives.

"Only for a time, my queen. My ultimate goal is to destroy them."

The queen gracefully rose from her throne, impaling her with a look.

"It is clear the woman feels strong ties to Erik, a man she thought dead. And now you have brought them together in a union of body and soul? How will that lend to their destruction?"

"To find the most satisfaction through their downfall I felt it necessary to unite them, but only for a time."

"They have joined in wedlock and consummated their vows," the queen said in disgust. "Do you forget that should pure love have existed between them in their original time it will only grow stronger and weaken the spell? His memories could return."

Lillith felt a twinge of nervous uncertainty. Such deep love was rare, but it failed to matter.

"Christine did not love him in that manner, if she truly loved him at all. She ran from him in bitterness and fear and left him to die at the hands of a violent mob, all to be with the Vicomte. She married the man Erik, yes, but only to save herself."

"You speak in ignorance, Lillith. Memories _have_ returned in small number, though he is unaware they are his own and attributes such thoughts to madness. What is to prevent the woman from apprising him of the truth? She might reveal his identity, just as she confessed to him her experience of falling through time. Know, too, that the deeper the love, if it exists, the stronger the effect it has to weaken the enchantment. In its truest form, it could _break_ the spell. He could come to the knowledge of who he is, with or without her telling him that truth. _They could find their way back to one another_."

Lillith winced at the revelation and at the knowledge that her Queen had not been as unaware of the plan as she initially led her to believe, but from its inception had watched the plight of the mortals so intensely. Lillith had feared to seek out permission, sure it would be denied after Shailene's betrayal. If Lillith now failed, Queen Viviane would be displeased and might punish her worse than the shunning from her people already endured. She should not have kept her actions secret from her divine regent, but had wished only to present the queen with the coveted gift of the end of the de Chagny line, once all plans for their demise had come to fruition.

True, she had witnessed brief occasions of closeness between the couple, Erik and Christine, but the dark thralls of physical anguish and emotional despair with which Lillith plagued the man made his own memories seem to him a nightmare and memories of the current century that he inhabited faded. He toyed also with the idea of Christine being demented, still looking at her askance for her claims of coming from the future, deciding the idea was caused from the injury to her head. So surely he would discount any revelation she might give. The woman also feared speaking, certain to do so would put distance between them and he would think her insane.

Yet if Christine should speak, and Erik was to believe her…?

Lillith smiled at a sudden thought. Even then it would work to her benefit.

"What greater suffering for these mortals than to love deeply, only to lose all? Christine Daae will soon know the greatest heartache when her masked lover shall be brutally taken from her, again to die, leaving her behind in a world unfamiliar. And then my vengeance on their kind will be made complete."

Queen Viviane nodded thoughtfully. "You were remiss not to seek my permission at the outset of this plan, most specifically in the shifting of time. That could have proven most dangerous had you misspoken such a powerful spell. There is a reason that it is only permitted by the elders and myself. You were fortunate, but _never again_ act without my knowledge." Quiet fury leaped from her eyes, like silver lightning.

"I beg pardon," Lillith cast her frightened gaze to the ground, bowing her head. "I wished only - and still wish - to rectify my sister's grievous error and to show my loyalty is eternally for my queen."

A long period of silence elapsed.

"I will show leniency, this once. Be aware, Lillith, I will be watching."

"I will not disappoint your majesty. Already I have plans set in motion that will lead to their absolute downfall…"

 **xXx**

Out of sight, Shailene listened with somber reflection to her sister's conversation with the queen. She had been punished for breaking Fae law and falling in love with a mortal. Shunned by her race and stripped of most but not all her powers, she had been forever separated from the man who once captured her body, then captured her heart, with only the seed of his loins that had borne fruit in her womb to remind her.

And it was with great interest she listened to the plans for Christine Daae and her masked lover, Erik.

It would take more time to again win the Queen's favor and re-establish herself at court, but win it she would, and once she did, her powers would be restored…

"Mother?"

Shailene turned quickly and put a finger to her lips for silence. Her son, Bradon, stood behind, his long hair like golden floss in the morning sunlight, his eyes the deep cobalt of the de Changys and the sole trait he bore of his father's race, opaque and not shimmering with iridescent lights exclusive to the Fae. Appearing in his mid-twenties, as all of the Fae did when their bodies ceased to age, he had received the immortality of Shailene's race, though at times she could see his human side surface in the things he said and his simple acts of kindness, very much like his father, Gregory.

Quiet and reserved, svelte and muscled, his form taller than most of the Fae males, Bradon was one of the most glorious, even as a halfling. It was no surprise that the queen showed a particular fondness for Bradon, despite his mother's sin, taking him as a slave into her court to serve her and into her bed. With Viviane being her sovereign, Shailene had no say in the matter, though she used Bradon's royal captivity and exclusive favor to her benefit. To his mother's great relief, Bradon remained secretly loyal to her, acting as a spy, even slowly attempting to soften Viviane's heart toward Shailene. Their plan had begun to work in the decade past, though Shailene had needed to feign disgust and abhorrence for the de Chagny line, proving her heart had turned from loving Bradon's father, dead now, as all humans eventually died…

But there was no longer time to wait for the queen to find mercy in her icy heart and restore to Shailene all Fae magic. Lillith's cruel plan would destroy her beloved Gregory's descendants, indeed, all of Bradon's family, thus ending the de Chagny line.

And that she could not allow to happen. For Gregory. For Bradon...

The curse _would_ be broken.

"Come," she said, taking her son's arm and pulling him away before they were discovered eavesdropping. "We must talk."

 **xXx**

In the misty gray dawn of a cold and barren bedchamber, two figures huddled close in slumber within the pelts of fur strewn across the stone floor.

Awareness came gradually to Christine, her mind at first muddled and confused by the sensation of delicious warmth against her naked skin…muscled flesh, not entirely smooth, with tufts of soft hair that tickled cheek, breasts, and legs - a pleasant tickle, but alarming nonetheless. The memory returned as she opened her eyes – and looked into silver-blue eyes that mirrored her soul...

Erik.

He supported himself on one arm, the mask again tied around his head, clearly the only item of clothing he had donned. And she blushed at the idle rumination and the proof of it in the solid, warm feel of his skin against hers.

He ghosted a finger along her brow, bringing it low to trace her lips.

"May I know what shocking thought put that charming flush of rose against such milky skin?"

"I…" She lowered her lashes. "um, simply had forgotten the events of yesterday, that is, until I opened my eyes."

His manner grew somber. "Do you regret what has happened between us?"

It was the second time he asked the question, and that he felt the need to tugged at her heart.

"No, of course not. It's just…" Shyly, she pulled at her lip with her teeth. "It will take some time, I think, to, um, become…accustomed to the idea. Despite that we _have_ shared a bed, it is so different waking up…like this."

"I see."

She could not discern his mood, he remained so calm and unflustered – unlike Christine, who could barely master articulation of her words – and she couldn't help but compare his assured behavior to the night they first reunited in the forest. Indeed, there were times he seemed confident, more like Erik of the Forest, while on other occasions, she could clearly see that Erik of the Opera House ruled his actions.

He brought the tips of his fingers along her jaw then lower, across her neck, bringing up the backs of them to brush the rim of her ear. She shivered with delight and nervous expectation.

"I have heard," he whispered against the ear he had just caressed, "that when oft-repeated, the experience enacted with care and attention to detail can aid in the ability to adapt to...change."

His words made her breathless, and her eyes went wider as his finger found and caught the pelt covering her breasts. Her hand instinctively rose to catch his.

"I would see my wife in the light of day," he whispered.

He had seen her twice naked in the moonlight, had taken her body as a husband, and with that knowledge, she certainly had no cause to refuse. But as he slowly brought the pelt lower, she could not help but feel a shy embarrassment, a foolish nervousness that he would not find her entirely to his liking with the darkness no longer acting as a shield.

Despite her strong grip to stop him, his will prevailed, and her breasts bounced free of the fur coverlet, her hand uselessly dropping away from clutching his. Her eyes fell shut.

The Phantom's gaze dropped to the firm, softly rounded globes and he ran his finger along one graceful curve, brushing against the fair rosiness of one pearl-like nipple.

She gasped and he faintly smiled, continuing with the blanket's descent, until her hips were unveiled, then pushed the fur pelt sideways off her legs. The predawn light made her flawless skin almost luminescent and his pulse raced with desire at the sight of her. Slender arms and legs, gracefully long, her hips gently wide in counterpoint to a waist that was also long and narrow. He traced his finger slowly beneath the curve of one breast, down her ribcage and over a tiny heart-shaped mole on her stomach near her navel, his fingertip then softly taking a path through the thatch of dark curls that adorned her womanhood.

Her eyes flew open and he lifted his own to capture them in his hypnotic gaze.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, "lovelier than any statue or painting of goddess or angel I have encountered…"

She moaned as his hand slid between her thighs and found the creaminess there.

"I asked you a question last night…"

"Yes," she whispered, breathless, moving her hips in gentle rhythm to his gradual strokes.

"But I fear, ma belle damoiselle, I cannot wait to have you again until night falls."

"No," she whispered in consent, her moan eager as he found and rubbed a tiny hard swell of flesh. At her enthusiastic reaction he did it a second time, then a third…

"Erik…" She reached for him, her hand clasping his arm, his shoulders, then both hands clutching his head and bringing him to her. He kissed her lips, feasting on their softness, never moving his hand from its damp haven of warmth.

She groaned with pleasure as he rubbed her, burying his fingers deeply into her slick desire, kissing him back fiercely, her tongue sweeping into his mouth and finding his. Kissing him – until overcome with the pleasure he gave, she broke away, head falling back into the pillow, and closed her eyes, softly crying out.

From her response, he did not deem her cry one of pain, and he brought his lips around her hardened nipple, suckling the sweet flesh. She arched her back, her fingers threading through the locks of his hair to keep him there…

Never… _never_ had Christine felt such a wealth of carnal bliss. Last night, she had come close to this feeling, but now the sensations were stronger, more intense. She felt as though she was being sucked into a well of rippling sensation, as he sucked her breasts and moved his hand firmly between her legs, setting off little pulses of pleasure within her being. Her heart pounded as if to leave her body, her breaths more difficult to manage and coming faster as a coil of warmth tightened within her core. Her senses heightened, more alert but strangely dizzy, until something gave way inside, causing her to cry out and tremble from the magnitude of the experience.

The Phantom watched great relief smooth the tension that had tightened her features, recognizing she had discovered a peak of pleasure, the silken flesh at his fingers wetter, even hotter, and pulsing in strong beats at his fingertips.

Her hands lifted to cradle his face.

"Take me," she whispered hoarsely, "Take me and make me yours…"

He shifted the coverlet from his own body and moved over her, positioning himself at the gateway to paradise. Slowly he sank deep inside her, and she gasped, looking intently into his eyes. They stared at one another for several breathless moments, a slow smile tilting her full lips, and again he took them with his, feasting on their softness.

His thrusts came steady, fluid, and she lifted her legs, pressing her calves against his tight buttocks. Her movements came natural, without thought, the passion he always stirred igniting like embers glowing inside her – and the feel of him… God, _the feel_ of his thick maleness stroking so snugly down to her very depths was both maddening and magnificent. This time, there was no sharp, burning pain, no true pain at all, just a sense of overwhelming fullness, and she held to him strongly, moving with him, eager to learn this slow dance of sensuality from her master of music.

The Phantom plunged deep within her heated walls, certain he had never known such bliss of the flesh. No matter his memories, dubious and vague as they were, they had misled him. He had never been with a woman before his Christine. He knew this, as certain as he knew the beats of his heart.

 _His_ Christine… _at last_ , and he wondered at the sudden joy that nearly drowned him in emotion. Coupled with the pleasure in taking her, in being one with her, his feelings were almost too much to contain. His hand slipped beneath her slim thigh, pulling it higher up his waist and she sucked in a rasping breath as he found even deeper penetration in the sweet furnace of her flesh.

" _My God, Erik_ …"

The expression of her delight drove his desire to a higher pinnacle and he strengthened his strokes, bringing them more swiftly. All too soon he felt the tightness prick along his spine, the culmination of his passion exploding within and without as his seed filled her.

Breathless, they held to one another as the pink rays of the sun faintly colored the morning sky. It was several moments more before either could find the ability to speak.

"Good morning." It was trite, it was foolish, but it was all she could think to say.

"Most assuredly."

A shared smile turned into a giggle and he chuckled along with her. Gently he pulled away then fell onto his back. Christine turned her head on the long pillow they shared to look at him.

He stared up at the sky through the open shutters, but she felt his hand move against her wrist, his fingers slipping over her hand to cover it. She moved her fingers slightly to curl around his.

"I think I shall grow well accustomed to this new life very quickly."

Still cossetted in the relaxing warmth that came from their spent passion, her words came with ease and without thought. Only after she uttered them did Christine wonder if he might think her too brazen, especially for this ancient century. How did women behave after making love? Quiet and meek? Or like his Aminta of the opera, a seductress?

His quiet chuckle reassured her, as did the squeeze of her hand.

"I shall be most happy to repeat the experience whenever and wherever you please, ma belle, to help you attain that goal."

Fire seeped into her cheeks, and she sought quickly to change the subject.

"I think for now I should like something to eat."

"How remiss of me - you must be famished! If what little memory I have retained serves me, you had nothing to eat last night either."

She grew serious. "Do you recall what happened in the courtyard?"

"I recall enough."

He sat up suddenly and to her curious shock rose from their bed. With wide eyes she sat up, clutching the pelt to her breasts and watched him stride to the window, the illuminated skies behind casting his tall, lean form in silhouette. She stared in stunned admiration as he reached for her undergown hanging on the shutter.

"It is still damp and cold, unfit to wear."

Leaving the item of clothing where it was, he turned to face her. Quickly she lowered her eyes to the fur blanket, flames heating her face to be caught so avidly staring.

"Never mind," he said more softly. "The sun will dry it soon enough. You should remain here and rest. You are still recovering from the attack. I will find us something to eat."

Christine heard the rustle of material, and when she felt it safe to look, lifted her eyes. He had donned his dark hose, his scarred back bare. Holding his tunic in his hands, he stood poised ready to pull it over his head. Reminded of similar words he spoke the previous evening and anxious not to let him out of her sight, for fear of another episode, (and certainly not wanting to spend another minute alone in this chamber), she looked toward the cot where her kirtle lay.

"I need no further rest. I prefer to come with you."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

She stood to her feet, holding the pelt to her body, and moved toward the bed. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed he now sat with his back to her as he pulled on his boots. Quickly she dropped the pelt, pulling the kirtle over her head. Not as scratchy as the awful wool robe, it was bearable against her skin, but cut low and with no linen undergown beneath, her breasts were revealed almost to the nipples. She had worn garments with low necklines in the opera, her costumes at times revealing, but never to this degree. Yet with no other option, she quickly brought her cloak around her shoulders and fastened the frog clasps.

She turned to see him standing close behind her.

"Oh," she exclaimed softly in surprise. Always he was so silent when he arrived and departed, ever since as a child she had known him, like the Phantom of his chosen designation.

"Shall we?" he offered her his hand.

She smiled in delight at the echo of the past and slipped her fingers against his palm.

"But first…"

With her hand held fast in his, he drew her close and dipped his head to brush his lips lightly to hers. Christine's heart beat more quickly, especially after what they so recently shared. A little demurely she lifted her eyes to his, and he brought his other hand to her cheek, drawing his fingertips against it.

"Come, sweet wife, let us raid the larder and see what we can find."

His manner and words were mischievously playful, despite the uncertain quandaries they faced, and though the dangers had not abated, her heart felt buoyant with hope for the future as she accompanied him to the door.

"Lead the way, husband."

Together, they slipped into the dark corridor…

But to their dual shock found it was not empty.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: muahahaha... ;-) - Thanks again for the reviews! :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) For those who asked for a little more honeymoon and E/C togetherness, this is for you (chapter deserves rating)...  
**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **Chapter XVI**

.

"Why the devil are you here?" The Phantom snapped. "Are you _spying_ on me?"

His eyes shot daggers at his two associates, who stood a short distance from the bedchamber that he and Christine had just left. She edged slightly closer to him, and he slipped his hand to her spine in reassurance.

"No, milord," Eustace was quick to reassure. "We would never!"

"No - never," Tobias parroted a stilted reply then looked at Christine and nodded in greeting. "Milady…"

Christine smiled at the lad in return. "I am pleased to see you are well, Tobias."

The boy's face grew ruddy and he bashfully grinned. Eustace looked on with clear disfavor and jabbed his elbow in Tobias's gut. The boy grunted.

"We only just arrived, milord. We saw the servants were absent and have sought you out to speak with you." Eustace glanced disdainfully at Christine then back to the Phantom. "Alone."

The Phantom's hand pressed a little harder against her back, slipping down and pulling her close to his side.

"Christine is not going anywhere."

Eustace frowned at the familiar use of her name and the possessive placement of the Phantom's hand on her waist. "I must discuss matters of our upcoming strategy for the rescue."

"Then speak."

Christine tightly clutched the edges of her cloak to her breasts, clearly ill at ease.

"It's alright. I'll wait inside."

Before the Phantom could detain her, she pushed away and darted behind him, opening the door and slipping back into the bedchamber.

He glared at Eustace.

" _What the devil is this about?_ "

"Why is she still here?" Eustace countered. "I thought by now you would have returned her to her kin."

"I told you, plans have changed."

Eustace snorted. "I do no' like this. Ye need to let the girl go and come back with us."

"That is not going to happen." The Phantom barely bit down his rising impatience. "However, you are both to return to the campsite, today, without me. Proceed with our plans. I have shared with you what knowledge I was given on how to use the black powder. You are well able to execute the rescue without me present."

"You want us to leave Paris _without you?"_ Eustace said incredulously.

"I have said it."

"And you will stay. With _her_?"

The Phantom scowled in warning. "I will return to the camp soon, within a matter of days."

"That goes against our code never to travel alone," Eustace argued.

"I began the code, I can dismiss it. Besides, I will not be alone."

"What?" Eustace exclaimed in shock. "You recruited a new member for our band?" he guessed.

"You might say that." Grimly the Phantom smiled. "You came here, seeking me out with a specific purpose in mind. You have yet to tell me what it is."

"But why, milord? Why would you stay in a hostile city where you are in constant danger of being found and imprisoned?" Eustace shook his head, not ready to relinquish the matter. His eyes widened as he came to some inner revelation. "God's teeth – it's _her_! You mean to bring her back with you? Just what foul enchantment has that witch put you under -?"

He got no further, as in one swift move the Phantom grabbed his shirt at the neck and shoved the husky Scot hard against the wall.

"That is my wife you speak so callously of," the Phantom growled low, and Eustace's eyes popped open in stunned horror at his title for Christine. "I have overlooked your insubordination in the past, having considered you the closest to a friend I'll ever know. But you forget yourself. You forget that I am leader and master, and that you are my aide."

Eustace gave a short, concise nod, but the Phantom did not let it go there.

"Christine _will_ be returning to camp with me – and no one will harass her or treat her less than how she should be treated. You can tell my men I said so upon your return. If anyone has problems with the new arrangement, they can leave the band, in fact, I want those disloyal fiends gone before we arrive. Is that understood?"

"Aye," Eustace answered gruffly.

The Phantom released him with an impatient flourish.

"In light of the history we share, the times you have saved my life and I yours, I will let this matter go. Christine is no witch, and I will never again hear you degrade her character. If you should forget and speak unwisely, I too will forget the past ten years I have known you, and will regard you as any other enemy out to harm my bride."

Frowning, Eustace averted his eyes.

"Le Masque?"

Drawing his brows together at the interruption, he nonetheless controlled his ire and turned to look at Tobias. "I go by another name now, lad."

"Phantom," Tobias corrected at his rebuke. "Is it true milady is your wife?"

He narrowed his eyes. "It is."

"Do ye not think it a wee bit sudden?" Eustace asked very softly.

The Phantom chose not to answer Eustace's mild question, since this time it was given in curiosity and without malice, though he did shoot him another warning look Eustace missed, since he still stared at the opposite wall.

The boy nervously smiled. "I'm pleased to hear milady will be joining us. She's kind and reminds me of my sister, that is, when Clarice was still alive."

At the boy's earnest approval, the Phantom's tension eased. At least one member of his band would support his union with Christine. He gave a slight nod toward Tobias then addressed both men. "If there is nothing else, I have matters to attend."

Eustace opened his mouth as if he would say more, then shook his head. "Nay, we have said all that needs spoken."

"Excellent. Go then. Leave Paris. Once you return to camp, take only those you trust to Chateau Martinique, but do not take Aubert and Richard."

Eustace looked at him in surprise. "How am I to prevent that? They are Marcel's closest friends. They will never agree to being left behind for such a dangerous mission – and certainly not at my word." He straightened as if to drive home a point. "They will listen only to you. You must come back with us."

"How many times must I say it – The plans. Have. Changed. Do not speak of it again." He whirled away to pace a few steps, then turned back to face them. "Should you allow the pair to travel with you on the rescue, they will bring nothing but trouble."

"But how can you know this?" Eustace asked in confusion. "Have they done something to compromise your trust? They are braggarts, and their tongues can wag with ill begotten words, but that is all it will ever amount to."

A recollection of a past event, clouded and cryptic, tried to seep into the fringes of his mind's awareness, but it was too distant to grasp and the Phantom let it slither back into the dark oblivion that had become his memory.

"If you wish for success, leave them. Tell them it is by my orders, and that I have put you in charge until my return."

Even then, the Phantom was uncertain his command would matter to those men, upon recalling their belligerence of days ago. Their bark was harsh, and he believed their bite could be just as ruthless. Marcel was no better, a troublemaker he did not anticipate welcoming back. There would be conditions the young rebel must accept first.

But he could not burden himself with such matters at present. Christine and her safety were his greatest concern. She was his wife now, and more important to him than any of them.

The Phantom watched until his men disappeared from sight. Too annoyed by the exasperating encounter to face his bride at the moment, he glanced toward the bedchamber door then whipped away in the opposite direction.

 **xXx**

Christine paced from wall to bed and back again, skirting the pelts on the floor, which she gave a lingering glance. A wistful smile played with the corners of her mouth at the memory of all that transpired within those soft pelts, her face and body warming with a trace of shy hunger.

Always, since she had first known her Angel of Music, she felt an inexplicable bond with him, and after learning he was truly a man, that bond strengthened to include passion and desire. Yet never once had she imagined the extent of such wicked pleasures that those sweet mysteries entailed, which at the time he expressed to her in song and through his tender but restrained affections. His intimate Music of the Night and sensual Point of No Return seemed tame in comparison to what they had shared last night and this morning.

Her sole regret was that he did not share in the memories, in _any_ memories, of who they once were together. Yet after the previous evening's trauma, she wasn't about to do or say anything that could cause him to relapse into that wretched void of anguish and horror. The wretched pattern was unmistakable, she could see that now - each time the ordeal of darkness struck, since arriving to his camp, it followed an episode when she'd spoken of life in the century to which they'd been born. And she would not be guilty of causing him further pain. If that meant she must never again speak of her past, so be it.

For whatever reason, they had been transported into this ancient epoch of time. She must come to terms with that and accept the lot she'd been given. It would be no small task to learn a completely different culture and day-to-day existence, especially once they returned to his camp of men who thought her a foe, a witch – and somehow she must convince them otherwise. But with Erik beside her, it sweetened the pot of this strange and bitter brew she'd been given.

No matter if he was the Phantom in verity, or believed himself to be Le Masque, he would always be her husband.

She gently stroked her index finger along the lovely silver wedding band with its graceful swirls of etching, like ivy along the top and lower rim, surprised she had received it, wondering how in the world he obtained it…

She cast a glance toward the closed door.

…wondering what was going on between Erik and his men that should take so incredibly long. Surely he wouldn't have left with them on some errand without telling her?

With a sigh, she looked around at the disorder – Madame Giry would give her an earful if she could see, having instilled in her ballet rats a propensity for spotlessness of their dormitory rooms.

Christine rolled up the pelts, deciding to leave them on the floor for the sake of convenience, a simple push of the hand enough to unroll their soft bed. Her face warmed at the welcome thought of another night in Erik's arms – every night hereafter! – and she giggled in delight as she gathered blankets and pillow and returned them to the narrow cot, making it up. Christine then collected the pitcher and basin from the ground. Her cheeks flamed at the sight of the pink-tinged water, and hastily she dumped the evidence of her lost virginity out the window, first peering down to make sure no one walked beneath. After replacing the pottery on the table, she retraced her steps to the window and grabbed her undergown of a chemise, only to find it still damp and chill. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she tossed the inferior linen back to the shutter with impatience.

At last she heard the sound of the door opening and swung around to look, hopeful it was her husband, fearful it was not.

"Erik."

He stood there, his presence a reassurance to frayed nerves. The look in his eyes, however, gave her a moment's unease. Within a breath it disappeared, and his lips twisted into a half smile beneath the mask. He held out his hand to her.

"Shall we commence with what we earlier attempted?"

Smiling in relief, she smoothed her hands down her skirt to dry them and moved across the room to take his hand.

The corridor was thankfully empty as were the rest of the premises where they walked, and she recalled what Erik said about morning prayers. Perhaps the servants also attended, which gave her and Erik a blessed corner of time to roam free without fear of being seen. He did not offer information about the meeting with his men, and she did not ask. Eustace had never regarded her kindly, though the lad had been genial as always - but Christine would rather not know what was said, so as to enjoy this beautiful morning with her bridegroom, their first day together as a married couple.

To her surprise, Erik first took her to the garden visited last night. By the cheery light of day, she could see that many of the bushes yielded ripe berries. She had never gone berry-picking, such delicacies already tucked away in the baked pastries she once consumed, and curiously she plucked a small purple globe off a branch. She watched as Erik did the same, popping one into his mouth, and did likewise. A juicy morsel, it burst with a sweet tang against her tongue, and eagerly she reached for another and another.

He watched her with mild amusement, much as one might observe a gleeful child.

"You behave as if you've never done this before," he said after she had stuffed her mouth so full of berries she could scarcely talk.

"I habn'…" she said around a mouthful of fruit and self-consciously gave a close-mouthed grin.

He chuckled, lifting his brow in surprise at her admission. Christine recalled little of her days before the Opera House, traveling with her father, and never remembered doing this. She hoped she did not come across as a glutton, but couldn't seem to help herself. The fruit was delectable and she was so hungry…

"Come, Christine," he said, grabbing her hand after a short time elapsed. "There is more to be had, but you'll have no room in your belly if you continue on this course."

He took her to a large kitchen, empty of servants, where food lay in wait for their return. A kettle over an open fire in an oven simmered with a delightful aroma of stewed meat and he took a bowl, ladling some into it then handed it to her. When he offered her no spoon, she looked at him a little strangely, but took the bowl, tipping it to her mouth. He took the same bowl, then tipped it to his. Once they had taken turns, emptying the bowl, he took a tablecloth, knotting it as a knapsack, and secured two of the five round loaves of bread inside, also adding a wheel of cheese.

"We must go," he said, "they will soon return."

Christine hesitated. "Do you think it's wrong to take all that with us?"

He regarded her in wry surprise. "What is the difference between consuming a meal in here or out there?"

She couldn't come up with a logical answer; but somehow, there _was_ a difference.

"The cleric does not expect us to starve. For a time, we are his guests. Do not fear, Christine, your soul is in no danger from any mortal sin. Let that burden fall on me."

She winced at his cavalier attitude but expected nothing less. She knew he was a thief and gave no consideration to such actions being wicked, or if he did, he did not care.

Christine followed him back to the rooms surrounding the cathedral, surprised when he did not return to their bedchamber, even more surprised when she recognized the direction in which they headed.

"Wait," she put a hand to his sleeve as he put his hand to the door's latch. "We're not going in there?"

"The cleric is still absent from his quarters."

"But – why go inside? What do you hope to find?"

"He has a document that I wish to take a closer look at. Come, Christine…" He sighed, his patience clearly running thin. "I have no plans to rob him."

With little choice to do much else, she followed him into Père Arnould's office, and Erik shut the door. He walked straight to the desk, riffling through scrolls, their wax seals broken, unrolling one to briefly glance at its contents then roll it back up, only to select another and discard it as well. After going through those on the desk in similar fashion, he moved to the scaffold of pigeonholes where a ring of keys hung suspended from a hook, and glanced at the scrolls there. Finally finding the one he wanted, he spread it out over the desk.

Christine came to stand beside him, looking down at what appeared to be a large drawing of some sort with strange words scattered over it.

"What does it say?"

"I thought you could read," he mused, not looking at her.

"Yes. French – not that strange language."

"It's Latin."

"Latin?" Her shock intensified. " _You_ can read Latin?"

Would she ever learn the full mystery of this man?

"Some of it," he said, peering intently at the drawing of lines, boxes, and squiggles. "I thought this to be a map of the city, to find a safer exit for us to take. But it appears to be a diagram of what's underground…under this very cathedral it would seem."

Her eyes widened as she studied him, then the map, and thought of the caverns and lake that ran beneath the Opera House. How far did they extend?

He continued to survey every inch of the parchment, running his finger along particular lines in deep thought. Christine glanced toward the desk and a missive he had discarded, now in danger of falling to the floor. Rescuing the scroll, she curiously parted it for a simple peek, a sense of impending dread making her pulse race as her eyes scanned the words.

"Erik, what day is this?"

"What?" Preoccupied, it took him a moment before he turned to her, as if just realizing she'd spoken.

"With all that's happened since I met you, I've lost track of time."

He thought a moment. "I think it must be the first week in July, perhaps the second."

"Oh, dear."

"Is there a problem?"

"According to this letter, the archdeacon could return at any moment!"

He narrowed his eyes in doubt and straightened.

You _read_ that?"

"Yes, it's written in French…" She realized then by his question that he still doubted her ability, not that she could blame him, after the far-fetched fantastical tale she'd shared of being transferred in time – no matter that it was her truth. She cleared her throat and began, "'…I write to inform you of my precipitous return to Paris, my plans to arrive early in the month of July or thereabouts, whereupon you will be relieved of all official duties held at the cathedral. I expect everything to be in order, with my room sufficiently aired and all else in preparation as to my requirements, which are as follows –'"

Erik snatched the letter from her hand, skimmed through several lines, and looked at her in astonishment.

She lifted her chin, feeling vindicated. "I did tell you I could read."

A smile twisted his mouth as he slowly nodded. "You did."

"I would never lie to you. I know, with all I've shared, you must find that difficult to believe."

"No, Christine…" He lifted his hand to cup her jaw, smoothing his thumb near the corner of her lips to her cheek as if she were made of finest porcelain, and sending her heart into a rapid, fluttering beat. "You are many things, but you are not a liar."

"Nor am I a witch."

He nodded once, his smile disappearing. "I believe you."

"Do you? Truly?" She smiled then. "If so, I am relieved. But about the rest, about what happened to me -"

"Let us not speak of such matters now. With this news of the archdeacon's imminent arrival, we shall plan to leave at dawn on the morrow."

She nodded in relief, uncertain what she might have said. She desperately wanted him to believe her, about the stones, but had resolved never again to bring up her past.

"I have something I wish to show you. Do you feel strong enough for a walk? It is rather taxing."

Intrigued by the eager gleam in his blue-grey eyes, Christine nodded. Her skull no longer ached, and she looked forward to a good dose of physical activity, not accustomed to a state of lassitude for long periods. While living at the Opera House, she had practiced the dance every day, on top of rehearsals and performances, even after Erik introduced his Don Juan opera and her voice, not her dance, became the primary focus.

"I think I am recovered enough to tackle it."

He drew his brows together in confusion at her choice of words.

"Tackle it…?"

"I am up to the challenge," she clarified.

"Ah. Excellent. I shall be only a moment more…"

He looked at the map, as if his brain were a sponge and he wished to absorb all that was there, then rolled the parchment up and placed it in his cloak.

"Come, ma damoiselle, and I will show you a sight you will not soon forget."

She giggled. "With my newly wedded state, I am hardly a maiden any longer."

He kissed her hand, his lips twisting in a devilish grin.

"True, but you will always be ma belle damoiselle."

They slipped from the chamber, watchful for any servants who might have returned to their duties. Despite the gravity of the situation, Christine felt lighthearted, dashing with her lover through the area, ducking behind pillars and into alcoves when they heard a sudden noise.

He whisked her around a stone column into the darkness quite suddenly, and held her close against his hard body, her back to his broad chest, at the same time his hand slipped inside her cloak against her breast.

"What's this…?" His voice was dark honey, drizzling warmth through her bones, as did the gentle brush of his callused fingertips against the fraction of nipple exposed above her neckline.

"Did you forget?" she whispered, gasping at the sensation. "My chemise is unfit to wear at this time."

"How fortunate," he purred against her neck, the feel of his lips and the drag of his teeth brushing the tendon there, along with the rolling little pinch of his fingers at her breast sending wetness to dampen the curls hidden beneath her long skirt.

She had thought it quite _un_ fortunate, until this moment, and almost giggled at the shameful thought. They were inside the _cathedral_ for heaven's sake! Surely, even though they were now wed, this could not be acceptable…

Worse still, she had ceased to care.

He waited several seconds after the oblivious servant passed them by, then again took her hand, leading her to the other end of the edifice and outside to a doorway there. Her curiosity heightened as she noticed the bottom of a staircase that wound upward.

"Are you certain you are up to this?" he asked again. "It is a rather long climb…"

In answer, Christine gave him a saucy, confident smile and, lifting her skirts, flew before him up the stone steps like a little green songbird in flight.

x

Halfway to the top of the steep winding staircase, she stopped and bent over, holding to the wall for support, her breaths bursting out in gasping heaves. She felt his hands clasp her waist and support her from behind.

"I was concerned this would be too much for you to manage so soon." His words were harsh with remorse. "I should not have suggested it. And mayhap you should not have 'tackled it' with such fierce enthusiasm. Shall we go back down?"

"Hell's Bells - I'm a dancer for pity's sake, or was..." She winced at her inappropriate terminology in such a sacred place, frustrated at the knowledge that she had grown so lax for her body to be in this deplorable condition. "I am well accustomed to rigorous rehearsals – this is no different. We've come this far and have the same distance to travel…Only give me a moment to catch my breath..." To surrender now would be a disappointment to them both, and she had no wish to accept defeat.

Minutes later, once they finally cleared the last step, where a huge bell hung suspended, he brought her to the edge of a stone parapet, bordered with wide stone columns that stood on all sides of the partially enclosed square space. Christine gasped in delight, finding the strenuous climb well worth the effort for a reward so beautiful.

Before her, this Paris of old lay spread out in perfectly sculpted lines and hues of green and brown, cream and gold. Forest, buildings and roads, with minuscule people and animals walking along them. The sight reminded her of the diorama of his mini theater with its lifelike dolls – even the Opera House rooftop had not seemed so high to give such a panoramic view, or perhaps, with the traumatic events that preceded her one visit there with Raoul, and in the darkness of that winter night, she had never noticed the scenery.

Now, she stood with Erik in the shadowed recess by the light of day, like visitors overlooking a lost world, or perhaps the only two people in existence to a world that ceased to matter, save for its distant beauty. She had felt much the same when he held her against him, as he did now, with her back firm against his chest, and they stood in the middle of a narrow bridge high above the Don Juan stage, the audience below fading from awareness as she and her Phantom reveled in the satisfaction of their coveted embrace…

With the memory of the disaster that followed, Christine should not feel so content, though the sensation of heat and desire were the same. Then, she had not known the fullness of what that meant – but now, to recall the sweet intensity of all they shared within their bed of pelts brought a welcome fire to flame her blood. Beneath his arm that covered her cloak at her breasts, her heart quickened with that need, and at her back, she felt his own heart pound. His hand moved to possessively cup a globe, and her head fell back against his shoulder, the strong wind that blew against them not all to steal her breath.

"Christine…" he whispered in seductive melody, his lips near her ear, and she groaned.

"Oh, God - yes…"

She wasn't sure how it happened, nor did she care. Suddenly she found herself with her back flush against one of the thick columns of stone, his hard body pressed to her softness, his lips hungrily devouring hers. She kissed him back with the same frenzy, her long ringlets whipping around them. He pulled her cloak away in impatience, his mouth finding the tight crests that had risen above the scandalously low neckline, as his hand dipped inside and scooped each mound out of its fragile confinement for his hungered benefit.

"What you do to me," he whispered fervently against her damp flesh, bringing his attentions upward against her neck. "It's as if...I have known you my entire existence...and found the missing half of my soul…"

She whimpered with stunned bliss at his choice of words and stirring actions, her hands by no means idle as she rubbed them along his arms and chest, finding and pulling the leather belt loose from his waist and letting it fall. With his cloak and tunic blowing free, her hands dove beneath the billowing linen to find heated skin and hard muscle, the soft hair there tantalizing her fingertips as she drew them up along his ribs and shoulders then directly down to the band of his dark hose.

Grabbing her skirt in tight fistfuls, he pulled it above her thighs, baring her secrets to his touch, his fingers briefly skimming over the flesh there to find her wet and ready for his possession. In a few lightning swift moves, he was freed and then blissfully, he was not – as he lifted her up against the barrier of stone and imprisoned himself within the deliciously confined depths of her silken heat.

Christine cried out in ecstasy, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips, her eyelids fluttering with the overwhelming sensation of passion once more experienced. He plunged deep and hard, his steady strokes soon coming rapid, and she half opened her eyes, the hazy view of Paris stretched out before her fading, more and more, while the wondrous release to which he brought her drew nigh...

Closing her eyes, she bit into his shoulder and clung to their world and all that mattered, as he took them both to its edge and tumbling over.

 **xXx**

Erik paused twice in their descent of the twisting staircase so that Christine could rest, though she quietly assured him that she felt invigorated, not exhausted. Indeed, their passionate interlude in the bell tower had unearthed a wildness within Christine - a freedom she never knew existed.

Twice, she and Erik were almost sighted – once when he gave into Christine's wish for more of the luscious berries and they went in search of a basket for them – once while picking the dark fruit. Erik's impeccable hearing saved them from discovery on both occasions, as he pulled Christine with him into concealment in the nick of time.

In their bedchamber, Christine relaxed, feeling she could breathe again, absent of the constant fear of discovery. She watched Erik untie the knapsack of bread and cheese, also producing a bottle of wine – from where she hadn't the faintest idea, having been with him the entire time – and shook her head a little in wonder at his Phantomesque mystery, still so much a part of him as Le Masque.

She unfastened the frog clasps of her cloak, letting the heavy clothing fall to the bed, and instantly became aware of his fixed look toward her bosom. With an inward groan, she remembered her forbidden vogue of dress. A hasty glance downward showed that indeed both nipples had rebelliously danced free once again, due to her constant movements, and instinctively she covered her hands across her breasts, feeling the telltale heat singe her face.

His smile came teasing but tender as he walked forward, forgetting their repast.

"You play so coy after what we recently shared? Tell me you are not ashamed to offer such a pleasing sight to the man who is now your husband…"

Had she come from the eighteenth century or traveled into it, when Parisian necklines flagrantly offered just such glimpses of the female bosom, as in the museum paintings she had once seen, she would not care. Possibly. Indeed, a number of her costumes at the Opera House had been quite provocative, but never to this extent. Yet such a short time ago, his mouth and hands had stroked every inch of the flesh she now hid from his interested perusal, which made her feel silly, even childish, to act so modest now.

His hands lifted to hers, gently pulling her reluctant ones away, and he held her arms out by the wrists, his eyes freely taking in the sight of her exposed breasts, her collarbone and throat, then lifting to her face.

"God, Christine, you are exquisite. I must have been mad to allow you to leave the room dressed in such a state. You are for my eyes alone to enjoy…" His words were forceful with intent as he pulled her to him softly by the wrists, and she went willingly. "…my lips to caress, my hands to adore…you are my sole enjoyment, ma belle damoiselle."

His lips brushed her soft ones, feather-light, then more firmly as desire again lit his blood. How easy it was to get caught up in his beautiful bride. He could sustain himself on the bounty of her sweetness and forego the foolish necessity to consume food for some time, days perhaps…

"Erik…?" she said, softly breaking away, breathless.

He tensed slightly, the name with which she christened him and her every utterance of it becoming more familiar somehow, less troublesome…it was the anxious manner in which she said it that gave him concern.

"What you said in the bell tower - that you feel, with me, as if you've found the other half of your soul - did you…did you mean it?"

The Phantom pulled away to regard her somberly. "I always speak my mind, Christine. I will never speak falsely to you."

She smiled, her eyes alight with a hesitant sort of happiness swimming in apprehension, as if she wished to say something of import but felt nervous how to go about it. He thought he understood and gravely nodded.

"It is alright, ma belle. I never asked for your affection and certainly never expected to receive it."

The words hurt to say, though he did not let her see his pain. He knew she married him for protection alone, and while he'd told her he felt that same need to protect, but also wanted to satiate his lust for her within the bond of matrimony – and thrice had accomplished that well – he'd kept hidden what lay coiled deep within the foundation of his damnable heart.

He managed a ghost of a smile. "Enough of this. Shall we eat?"

The Phantom released his hold on her wrists, taking a step in retreat. She stepped forward, finding and gripping his hands tightly. He looked at her in surprise. Her dark eyes were fierce with feeling and a need to make him understand.

"It's not that – not at all! You are so wrong if that's what you truly think." She shook her head a little in frustration. "There is much I want to tell you, that I _need_ to tell you. But I don't know how to say all of what I should say without saying what…I shouldn't, and…" While she spoke the last, she looked askance, her final jumble of words trailing to nothing.

Her eyes widened and she blinked, staring - then gasped. " _My chemise!_ " Quickly she released him. "No – oh no!"

At a glance he could see the shutters stood as they'd left them, with one exception. Her damp undertunic no longer hung from the right side.

She hurried to the window, the Phantom behind her, and both looked to the ground below. A pile of white linen rested innocuously on the grass near one of the bushes. One glance at his wife's alluring décolletage told him what must be done before she could ever leave this room again, and especially before a servant should wander by and spot the missing item.

"Stay here," he told her, "I will retrieve it."

She nodded anxiously, and he hastened from the room, slipping in and out of shadows to avoid detection while taking the corridor that led to the opposite end of the building, so as to walk around it, the fastest route available. He looked up, spotting Christine at the window.

"There…" Her voice came somewhat distant but discernible, and he moved to the bushes where she pointed.

After a short exploration of the area, he found the linen and victoriously held it up in one hand for her to see.

She did not look at him but far beyond. Even from this distance, he could see her expression of fear, her face gone pale.

"Christine, what is it?" he called up to her, manipulating his voice without thought, so that he did not shout to attract attention but she could still hear him. "What's wrong?"

"Soldiers - on horseback. Two blocks distant - maybe – and they're coming this way!"

He fiercely cursed. "How many?"

"I don't know! Too many to count…"

It could be an escort for the archdeacon, having just come from the king and seeing him safely home.

"What colors do they bear?"

"Colors?" Her voice raised a decibel in panic.

He relied on every bit of patience he possessed, which was scant on a good day. "Their banners and tunics, if they have them – what colors do you see?"

"Green – white - gold."

"Damn!" he clenched the damp undertunic in one tight fist. "Christine, quickly don your cloak and flee to the cathedral. Conceal yourself in the alcove where we earlier hid." There wasn't time to return to their chamber and escort her there. They had a better chance of escape if they met halfway. "Be careful not to be seen…"

"I – don't understand! Is it the archdeacon? Has he returned?"

"It's the bloody Vicomte – go, Christine. There's no time for delay!"

"But – NO! I **_cannot_** lose you again!"

"I will meet you there – GO NOW!"

The Phantom, once known as Le Masque and, before that, by a name the wise dared not utter, did not linger to see if she followed his brusque instruction, instead hurrying around the building to the door recently exited. His most despised enemy would do all within his considerable power to capture and imprison him in chains…as had been the fiend's aspiration, since the fifteenth year that followed the winter night they had left their mother's womb, and both had been taught to hate. A mutual vendetta carried out for a decade, with no desire for a truce.

And now, once the Vicomte learned he had made Christine his bride, he would surely do all he could to see the Phantom dead.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: Twists are such fun. ;-) Thanks again for the reviews!  
**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) I'm happy to see there's still some interest…here's more…**

* * *

 **Chapter XVII**

.

Christine could barely draw breath, her heart racing with dread as she hastened to don her cloak.

She did not fear so much for herself – no one in this bizarre epoch of time knew her – but Le Masque had made powerful enemies in this century, just as the Phantom of the Opera had with the Vicomte of their century, and Erik was paying the price for both infamies. Guilty of the latter, but certainly not the former.

Her eyes swept toward the table as she turned to go, and with a sinking feeling she noticed that Erik had left his sword behind. He had not worn it during their splendid day together that had so mercilessly been ripped from them. How would he defend himself without it?! Though she feverishly hoped it would not come to that…

Terrified to know what was happening but desperate to see, her eyes drew like a magnet toward the open window. She let out a soft anxious cry to see that the soldiers had nearly reached the perimeter of the grounds, scarcely half a block away.

Scrambling to gather the knapsack she'd knotted, the rolled pelts, and the belt that held his scabbard and sword, she awkwardly ran for the door, managing after two frantic attempts and a shuffling of her burdens to wrench it open.

Thankfully the sunlit corridor was empty and she fled down the narrow path as fast as she was able, to the door of the chapel. This hour of day it stood closed, and with another frenzied juggling of their possessions, she pushed the heavy wood blockade ajar and slipped into the dark interior.

Up ahead, a servant boy busily polished one of the front benches. Christine swung around a pillar, pressing her back to the stone and closing her eyes while attempting to slow her rapid breathing.

Fearful she would be spotted and that Erik had already been apprehended or worse, she found herself beseeching the Almighty, His Son, and those saints she could recall from her girlhood catechism for intervention. Her lips moved in a rapid whisper.

" _Heavenly Father, please…St. Cecillia, St. Christopher, St. Michael, St. Francis…"_ She shook her head when she could remember no others. _"Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, help us!"_

A massive chandelier of candles hung near, angling light against half her face. A shadow blotted out the dim orange sheen beyond her closed eyelids at the same time she heard a stiff rustle of cloth. She opened her eyes, ready to scream in panic – stunned when a hand clapped over her mouth and the tall shadow separated itself from darkness to step closer.

Eyes of silver-blue gleamed behind a mask of ebony, and she nearly dropped their possessions, her relief was so great. With his finger pressed to his lips for silence, and at her nod, Erik removed his hand from her mouth. Without a word he took his weapon and the pelts from her arms, leaving her with the lighter knapsack, then with his head motioned that she was to follow.

In silence, they quickly made their way down a side aisle, and Christine could see that the servant had dropped to his hands and knees, his back to them, now absorbed in cleaning the bottom of a center pew. Her heart continued to slam against her ribs, even once they cleared the young man's notice and entered a corridor. They would not be safe until they escaped this place and Christine failed to see how that could be accomplished. Even now, she could hear the unmistakable sound of horses and men gathering outside.

They approached an area to which Christine had never been, with torches along one wall. At once she noticed an iron gate barred the chamber at the far end. From his cloak, Erik produced the key ring she had spied in the cleric's office and slipped one of the iron keys inside the lock. It did not budge, nor did the second, and Christine worried that none would fit. The third key slid into the keyhole and turned with a hollow metal clunk. Erik pushed against the gate. It gave an elongated creak, and Christine winced with alarm at the strident noise, fearful everyone in the building could hear and pinpoint their location.

Grabbing a nearby torch, Erik stepped inside, Christine behind him. He handed her the torch, then hurriedly closed the gate, moving his hand through the bars to fit the key in the lock and secure them inside.

She hurried with him to the rear of the long narrow chamber, which held shelves that bore items of gold, copper, bronze and silver – candelabras and bowls of all sizes, small metal boxes inlaid with precious jewels, candle snuffers that extinguished flame, and a number of unfamiliar items that she presumed must belong to this century alone. Wooden casks along with intricate chests stood lined along the walls of ash-gray rock, and she realized at once this was where they stored their treasury and any items of worth.

"Erik…?" she whispered, completely mystified.

He tossed the keys into a basket and anchored the torch in a holder, then dropped the pelts to strap on his sword. Surely in the midst of their escape he did not plan thievery! He had vowed to her that he would not steal from this hallowed place.

Contrary to her wishes, he grabbed a second basket, busily helping himself to the goods from a shelf. He dumped candles, a flask of some sort, linen strips of cloth, and other items into the straw container.

"Grab the lantern," he nodded to a hook on the wall, where a wooden one with clouded panes of thick glass hung.

"You mean to _steal_ all this?" she asked in disbelief.

"We have more need of it than they," he snapped, his words harsh. He turned his head to see the tight disapproval on her face, and withdrew his drawstring purse, spilling a few coins into his palm and tossing them to the shelf. "There. That more than covers what I've taken."

Christine nodded in mild relief and grabbed the lantern. She still did not comprehend why he'd chosen this place instead of a door to exit the cathedral – surely more than one must exist inside the mammoth building – but this wasn't the time to ask. The strain which he was under was evident in his every tense word and movement, the strain they both operated under – and her mind's eye tormented her with frightful images of what a medieval prison – a dungeon – would hold...

If they did not kill them on the spot.

She shook her head, trying to oust all morbid imaginings. Her husband was a genius. In this life and the other, a master of escape. He would not lead them into the depths of a cage to be trapped.

He faced a wall of stone, his eyes traveling every inch of it and over the large cupboard that stood there.

"The map displayed the northern wall…" he mused quietly, looking at the dark rock and then again at the cupboard. Erik paced from one edge to the other in absorbed study, then put both hands to the side and pushed. When nothing happened, he swore and straightened, his eyes intent on the simple cupboard. He narrowed them, suddenly alert as if in revelation, and ran his hand along the panels at the sides and the back. The sound of a soft click barely stirred the air. This time when he pushed, the cupboard moved, as if hinged to the wall.

Christine gaped in astonishment when a hole in the wall emerged, big enough for a man to walk through. Erik nodded in approval, clearly expecting it, then grabbed the basket, pelts and torch.

The multitude of footsteps came closer, and Christine sucked in a fearful breath.

"Can you manage the rest?" he asked, and she nodded, reclaiming the knapsack and holding it nervously against her breasts.

He pushed the torch through the hole to survey the area before hunching down and stepping through, Christine on his heels. Her eyes widened to see they stood in a narrow cavern, the area chill and damp with the musty-sweet odor of mildew and earthen rock - strongly reminiscent of the passageways that ran beneath the Opera House.

With nowhere to set the torch, he thrust it toward her.

"Hold this."

She accepted their sole source of light as he turned back to the entrance of the cavern. Finding and depressing the secret catch, he released the cupboard to swing toward them and again cover the hole – and none too soon as the sound of swift running footsteps and shouts drew near.

"Will they follow?" Christine worried aloud as he reclaimed the torch.

"First they will need to find their way through the gate, absent of a key. Once that is accomplished they must locate the secret entrance into this cavern. Without a map, it will be impossible for them to decipher the knowledge of the hidden entry – a map now in my possession," he smirked. "We are safe."

"But _where_ are we?"

"Caverns that run beneath the ground," and so saying, he swept the torch to the right of where they stood.

She gasped in amazement to see the firelight illuminate natural steps of the same rock, leading downward.

"Shall we venture forth?" Without waiting for her reply he descended.

Christine hesitated, glancing nervously at the closed cupboard, from behind which men's angry and distant voices distinctly rose, and hurried after him.

Dark brown rock, slick and rough in texture, rose up on either side and above, the top of Erik's head barely clearing the cavern ceiling, though at times he found it necessary to stoop over. He led the way down the corridor, so narrow they were forced to walk single file, and Christine was hit with a strong wave of nostalgia. How like the night he appeared in the mirror and took her through the reflective pane of glass and to his lair! Alike, yet so different…

With his arms full, he did not lead her by the hand, and his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocked out the flickering torchlight so that she walked in shadowed darkness. She shifted their belongings clumsily to one arm, clasping the unlit lantern in that hand, so as to grasp his cloak at the shoulder. Her changed position caused her to lose her grip on the knapsack, and she released her hold of him with a muffled cry, grabbing at the cloth bundle before it could fall.

He stopped and turned to look, noting her awkward hold of the knapsack, then lowered the basket he held, nodding that she should put the cloth bundle on top.

Feeling incredibly foolish and unable to meet his eyes, she did.

"I never liked the darkness exceedingly well," she explained in defense, though it would have been more truthful to say 'at all.'" And in such confined space, with no room to run if need be, it was doubly terrifying.

"Do you wish me to light the lantern you carry? I thought to use it only if necessary, if the torch's flame should be extinguished. However…"

"No, that's alright," she hurried to say, not wanting him to think her a silly, fearful child.

As long as she remained close to his reassuring warmth and presence, she could manage the encroaching dread of being swallowed up by the thick darkness and the unknown terrors of what it held. She had done so once before in similar darkened corridors, under equally frightening circumstances, when he had dragged her by the wrist at a run, in his panicked escape of the gendarmes on the night of the Don Juan.

Christine released a breath of frustration. How was she ever to forget their past if she was constantly reminded of what they once lived in that century...

 **xXx**

The Phantom resumed their journey deep into the bowels of the earth, which seemed forgotten. Idly he wondered how many had walked this dank path and sensed the number to be few. He had heard tales of persecution from the kings, and curiously pondered if the entrance to these unknown caves had been added for that purpose, as a place to hide, perhaps even built into the original foundation in the twelfth century. These caves could have been used to conceal the treasure if under attack from enemy soldiers, since the secret entrance was in the chamber where valuables were kept. Whatever the reason for its existence, he was grateful he'd thought to investigate the premises during Christine's recovery and found the map. The idea of secret chambers beyond hidden entrances appealed, a master stroke of genius, and would be an endeavor he would surely undergo if ever he should give into the desire to design such a building.

He felt Christine clutch his cloak a second time, sensing her disquiet. His brow furrowed in deep concentration of their gloomy surroundings.

The air was close here, stale, and he followed the solitary, musty path that twisted a great deal more than he recalled the crude map showing. Silence stretched between them, a faraway drip of water hitting stone the only sound to reach his ears. The well of blackness continued ahead, and he wondered how far they must go to find the promise of safety.

As they walked, leaving the present perils behind, the tension eased but his mind became fixed upon two troubling curiosities his intellect could not explain, much less comprehend. So much of his past lay locked within the borders of his consciousness, the permanence of those absent memories a likelihood he had come to accept. Yet to suddenly find himself capable of an unknown ability was jarring to say the least, and he wondered what other astounding secrets would reveal themselves in the upcoming days.

He recalled the manner in which he had thrown his voice beneath the window – where in the devil had he learned such a bizarre skill and how had he known he could do it?! But he had _not_ known, the feat coming unexpected and as natural as the exhalation of breath.

Odder still, Christine displayed no surprise or curiosity to know how or why his voice suddenly came to her as if they stood inches apart. Another incident he fully intended to question.

Twice now, she had spoken of him in a manner that did not fit what they experienced together in the two weeks he'd known her. He felt hesitant to ask the meaning of her words and learn what he feared, but it was a conversation he fully intended to introduce when he could see her every expression.

He recalled how he found her in the cathedral, her eyes squeezed shut and her lips moving in breathless prayer to the saints she had quietly beseeched - the holy family, the patron saints of music and protection, the archangel, and the patron saint of animals. As his face was monstrous, and he was called a beast, the Phantom wryly thought the last call for intervention suitable – not that those in the heavens would lend him aid – when an image flashed with vivid clarity into his mind: A small child kneeling in prayer near a window of stained glass, little hands clasped and tucked beneath her chin, her curly hair wild and dark eyes tearful as she soulfully prayed to every one of those entities for her Angel to come…

The Phantom staggered, slamming his hand with the torch to the wall for balance.

"Erik!" Christine's fingers lost her hold on the back of his cloak and quickly found his arm. "Are you alright? Did you trip?"

"No," he gritted low through his teeth, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to bring stability to his thoughts. "It is nothing." The vision had been swift but true, blotting out the sight of the cavern before him for scant seconds, much like the black spells that frequently crowded into his mind, but without the physical anguish. A hallucination of the oddest nature, one that brought a trace of sorrow to his heart. Who was that child?

"You're sure?" Her tone was doubtful.

"It is **_nothing!_ "**

The Phantom cursed his sharp tongue when Christine abruptly withdrew her hand, but he tendered no apology. The answering silence came welcome, yet mocked him with guilt.

Keeping a swift pace, they soon approached a bend where the path widened, with only the sound of their footsteps and her quickened breaths that had altered into winded gasps. Mindful of her fragility after the fiend's attack against her, he abruptly stopped and let the pelts fall to his feet, also setting the basket down.

"We will rest here."

She barely nodded and lowered herself to sit against the wall, avoiding eye contact and staring at the unlit lantern she held between both hands. He released a hiss of air through clenched teeth and briefly closed his eyes in irritation with his prior surliness.

"Christine…"

She peered up at him, her expression uncertain.

"I am not accustomed to social niceties, given what I am, and am unfamiliar with how to speak and not injure a woman's sensibilities…" He hesitated, sensing he was going about this badly. "I should not have snapped at you. I should have paid you more heed. I should have allowed you to rest earlier than this." He winced to see how exhausted she truly was.

Her eyes widened in shock. "You're apologizing?"

He grew slightly peeved that she should think it such an anomaly. Did she regard him as an unfeeling barbarian? Had he not proven to her, time and again, that he would do anything for her happiness and comfort?

"Is that so surprising?"

The hint of a smile touched her lips, and he sensed she withheld a thought.

"You did nothing wrong, Erik. It is only…" She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. "Do you think they'll stop searching now that we've gotten away? Surely, the Vicomte cannot desire a bride who wants nothing to do with him?"

His tension eased to acknowledge he was not the true culprit of her despair.

"I wish it was so, but he will never stop searching."

"But…I still don't understand. Can he not simply find another wife? It's not as though we've met..."

He looked at her in bemused puzzlement. She truly did not comprehend how the contract of marriage between arranging families went. That it was a subject of honor and could have bad repercussions should either of the parties involved rescind their agreement. Strange…but no stranger than her inability to grasp other rules of the land. Her impossible words of coming from another century teased the fringes of his mind, but he pushed their foolishness away.

The chief reason for the Vicomte's hostility lay within the lineage of the blood that ran through the Phantom's veins. Would that he could drain every loathsome bit, though to be absent of life held no appeal, and he frowned at another equally irksome thought. Now that Christine was his spouse, he must tell her. Eustace knew, though few others did, but she deserved to understand the extent of the dangers they faced…and why.

He held out his hand to help her up. "Do you feel able to continue?" He had given her only a few minutes, perhaps not enough time, but the urgency to act and find them shelter and warmth prodded him. Even with the cloak she wore, he could see her shiver from the oppressively chill air.

Christine nodded and accepted his aid. He again took the brunt of their burdens, leaving her to carry the wooden lantern, relieved when she walked beside him, now that there was room to do so, and again clutched his arm.

They came to a fork in the path and the Phantom looked both ways, entering the left tunnel without much deliberation. Once, long ago, he had stayed in such a cold, dark tomb of a place, and he hoped it was the same hideaway to which he now led them. It was impossible to know with all the twists and turns they'd taken. The crude map did little good, save to find the cave's entrance in the treasure room. And yet…somehow he felt he _knew_ this dreary maze of rock and had crossed its stone path countless times. That he did not even need a source of navigation to guide him there.

How was that even possible?

After much walking, with one brief stop to rest for Christine's sake, at last he heard the sound he'd been seeking. The quiet murmur of water assured him that the underground lake wasn't far, and their exit into daylight and the forest a short distance from that. _If_ his memory could be trusted.

Christine's hand tightened on his arm as they moved through an entryway into a familiar chamber as large as the cathedral. Once he considered this cave unfit for Christine; now they had no choice but to stay.

x

The torchlight served to adequately illumine only a small area, picking up orange glimmers in the black water nearby. The remainder of the area was dim and hazy without sufficient light, but across the lake what appeared to be a dark, massive hole led into another underground chamber.

Christine gasped, her eyes wide in stunned shock as she looked all around them.

" _You…you brought me here?_ "

Her words came small, barely above a whisper, and rife with disbelief.

"I apologize, ma damoiselle." He scowled at such an inadequate offering of shelter. "First I provide you with a meager tent shared, later a brothel, followed by a barren room at a pious institution. And now this…"

Her expression softened though her astonishment remained.

"No - it's fine. I understand, given the circumstances. It's only…" She hesitated, framing her words. "How did you know of this place? Have you – have you been here before?"

At the awestruck but nervous bent to her words, he narrowed his eyes.

"Have you?"

She blinked several times then gave an anxious laugh.

"How could I?"

He studied her a moment, realizing she did not deny it, but chose not to persist. Setting down their things, he moved to anchor the torch firmly into a gap in the stone wall. He looked around the large room and at the lake that sloshed against the rock shore and flowed from the mouth of the chamber.

"As a lad, I came here once, to hide…"

He drew his brows together in confusion. How could he remember that and so little else about his childhood? And yet, the picture of what he now observed did not blend together to make sense with what he remembered:

Candles standing all around and lighting up the entire area with a golden blaze, in a weak attempt to emulate sunlight…rich tapestries and golden statues scattered throughout the chamber...tables, chairs…even an organ set on the higher cliff of rock to his right, with another chamber beyond that – containing a massive bed in the shape of a bird.

He clutched his head, gripping his hair as the flash of the image sliced through his mind, creating a pain so intense it brought him dropping to his knees.

"Erik!"

Christine ran toward him and fell to his side, her arms embracing him. "What is it? Are you hurt? Did something happen?!"

"This place…"

His words came hollow, barely understood, and she held him more tightly.

"This place," he said again. "It's all wrong."

He heard her sharp intake of breath near his ear. "Never mind. You shouldn't think about anything that upsets you. Try and rest."

"I _have_ been here before," he quietly insisted, to himself, to her, he wasn't sure. "But not as I thought. There was a girl…or perhaps…a woman?"

The silhouette of both appeared as hazy black images on the mirror of his recollection.

"You shouldn't dwell on what gives you pain," she softly advised again, stroking the back of his head, careful not to disturb the lacing of the mask and earn his rage or mistrust.

She was startled with how swiftly he pulled away, the look in his narrowed eyes one of puzzled suspicion.

"You often speak to me of attempting to recall memories long absent from my mind, asking what I remember of my life. Now, when I speak of them, you want me to forget. What has changed?"

"I…" She cast her eyes down then past him, toward the lake and the shadowed mouth of the chamber. "I simply don't wish you to relapse. Last night, I was so frightened, to find you in such a wretched state in that dark garden."

His eyes searched hers with confusion. "You speak as though you care."

"Is that so unbelievable?" she asked in surprise.

"You have known me the sum of a fortnight. In that time I have held you as captive, using guards to restrain you, have taken you into dangerous situations –"

"No - stop." She shook her head fiercely and laid her hand against his cheek. "You saved my life."

"I did what I must."

"You _saved_ _me_."

Her fingertips traced his cheek beneath the mask, and he lifted his hand to cover hers.

"Christine, twice you have spoken of what makes no sense, once to me, once to Tobias – I must know what it all means."

"I don't understand."

She averted her eyes and tried to slip her hand away, but he held fast.

"You told Tobias, when he attempted to stop you on the night of the attack, that you would not fail me again. Strange words, when you had not once done anything to disappoint or betray…"

Mayhap it was a trick in the muted golden glow of the firelight, but the color seemed to seep from her cheeks.

"I – you thought Paris was a trap. We argued. You thought me a spy…" She looked away then back again. "Tobias misheard. I was anxious for your safety and knew you were in danger. Yes, I told him I would not fail you – but if I did say 'again' I meant it for those reasons…"

"Earlier you cried out that you cannot lose me _again."_ He stressed the word she so carelessly explained away, his eyes boring into her soul. "As if you had lost me before. Why would you speak thus, when you had not?"

Christine struggled to breathe, this time managing to pull her hand from beneath his and bury it with the other inside her cloak. She grasped her fingers tightly so he wouldn't notice how she trembled.

"Why do you ask me these questions?"

"I seek to know the truth."

She shook her head in frustration. "But I almost _did_ lose you! The night of the attack, when the Vicomte's men ambushed you. And last night in the garden – I feared they had found you, when I didn't know where you were. And the nightmare I had of being burned at the stake, when I couldn't reach you…"

"So then, you care. But I have yet to understand why."

"Of course I care what happens to you! You're my husband."

She looked at him with incredulity that he should ponder the cause, his expression one of earnest puzzlement, and she wondered if he truly never had anyone care about him. She ached to tell him her deepest feelings, but knew he would not believe her. Doubtless she would only make matters worse.

"With two of those incidents you mentioned we were not wed," he persisted. "Nor had I yet offered marriage."

"Does it matter?" she asked in quiet frustration. "Is it not enough that I care if you suffer? That I care whether you live or die?"

He abruptly pushed away from the ground and stood to his feet, moving a few steps away before he stopped and stared high at the shadowed wall. "I am not convinced that I have arrived to the full disclosure of the truth."

She waited, anxious about his somber change of mood and dismayed that he would not surrender to her perfectly reasonable explanations.

"What I think…" he went on and turned again to face her, "Is that, at times, you perceive me to be someone I'm not. You told me that when you call me by the name you have chosen, you see me me alone. But I am not persuaded that is the case. Tell me that when you said you couldn't lose me that you spoke only to me and did not think of your _Angel of Music_." He said the last with a sardonic sneer, his eyes glowing hard like steel and demanding truth.

Christine desperately sought in her mind with how to answer him. She would always see him as her Angel, despite what dark mistakes he once made, and could not lie and tell him otherwise. He had been her friend, her protector. He had provided guidance and taught her, until one spectacular evening when he revealed his majestic form, and she knew him as a man, the Phantom of the Opera.

Staring at his cloaked figure now, much like the night he'd brought her to his home, reawakened that awe-inspired moment, and she could only stare.

Here, inside this cavern, the sensation of living in the past overwhelmed. As if time never interfered to seize them from the century to which they were born. And though there were no candles, no tapestries, no organ – none of those objects that belonged to the Phantom – this shelter to which he had taken her was undoubtedly the sixteenth century version of his lair.

"Your silence proves my claim." His words were grave.

"I see you," she countered weakly.

By the hard glint in his eyes, this time he wasn't satisfied with her reply.

"I have decided…" His words came soft and low, but demanding. "No longer will you call me by his name."

She let out a quiet breath and wearily rubbed her head.

"What shall I call you then?"

"You may call me by the name you first gave me – Phantom. Or husband, if you prefer."

The name of Phantom felt so ordinary and distant after the intimacy they shared, and though "husband" gave her a little tingle all over her skin to hear him say it, to speak the title as a form of regular address would feel odd. There was one other term she once called him, one she had not shared in recounting their history together, and she hoped it would not spur another anguished memory. Addressing him as Phantom never did, so she felt reasonably certain the familiar term would be safe to use too.

"May I call you Maestro?"

He approached her, his expression confused.

"What exactly is a _maestro?"_

"You have never heard the title?" she said in surprise, wondering just how much of the language that she considered commonplace was even known in this century. "Well, let me think. It's an Italian word and means master and genius" - of music, but she didn't say the rest, afraid he would correctly link that to the Erik of her past too.

"Master and genius…" The corners of his lips twitched into a facsimile of a half-smile. "Is that how you see me?"

"You are very intelligent."

"And am I your master?"

His voice was dark golden honey, soothing and seductive. She blinked at the unexpected change in its tone, which matched his lightning-swift moods.

"I…you're my husband," she fumbled, shaken. "So in that sense, I suppose you are."

Her answer seemed to displease him, as evidenced by the rigid set of his jaw, though for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.

"What shall we do now?" she whispered after a time, hoping to break the stony silence that had again formed between them.

"We wait until nightfall and leave the cavern then."

"Back through the cathedral?" She repressed a groan at the thought of retracing their many numerous steps through the seemingly never-ending crevices of cold rock.

"We have no need to return to Notre Dame."

She looked at the water. "But I see no gondola."

He shook his head in bemusement. "No… _what…_?"

Good heavens – did those not exist either?

"Um, canoe?"

Again he looked puzzled.

"No boat."

"Why should we need a boat?"

"To get across the lake, of course, to the outdoors…"

She shut her mouth swiftly at the intense look that glowed in his eyes.

"How would you know of such an exit?"

Fool, Christine! She bit the side of her tongue she had forgotten to curb. How indeed. She knew because she and Raoul escaped by that method on the night the mob found their way into these caverns, directly after the Phantom ordered her to go.

She recalled clutching desperately to Raoul for balance as she stood in the black gondola and stared back at this man, now standing before her in shock, while tears streamed down her face at the horrific knowledge that she might never see him again.

"It's a lake – surely it must exit outside the cave, like the sea that washes into caves does?" Her explanation sounded as fragile as she felt, but thankfully he nodded, accepting her weak logic.

"I know of no such path, but there is another I took as a boy."

"That's right – you mentioned coming here before…" She hesitated, afraid to say too much. Did his memory involve the illusion of coming here as the lad, Le Masque? Or a reminiscence suffered, as a young Phantom? "Who were you hiding from?" she added carefully.

"The same enemy that has dogged my steps since my fifteenth winter…" He looked down at her. "You tremble."

She was shivering, and not entirely from the cold. He unrolled one of the pelts and draped it around her shoulders, and she snuggled into its comfort.

"You mean the Vicomte of this century?" At his stilted nod, she continued. "Why should he trouble you all this time? Did you know him when you were young?"

Yet surely a childhood misunderstanding would not cause a lifetime of enmity…

He looked at her a long moment, as if debating whether to continue their discussion.

"I vowed I would speak only truth to you, and would wish for the same courtesy. You are my wife now and should know the man you wed. Trust is important, but cannot thrive without truth."

She nodded to encourage him, though by the tensing of his jaw and the continual flexing of his fingers, closing and opening his fist at his side, she sensed it was difficult for him to share.

"While it is true that the Vicomte searches for you, he has long sought to capture me. I told you that one winter's night I was left as a babe to die, on the Megaliths of Carnac. The witch who made me her slave told me of my denied birthright, forever taunting me with that truth. There was a price for the favor asked of her by my father, years before he took a wife, a price never paid, so she took me as revenge against the family. They wished only to blot out my existence – but she saved me, to be a thorn in their side with the knowledge that I survived. In our fifteenth year, when my brother learned of the sordid tale through the marquis, he sought to rectify the act at which my parents failed - to kill me."

Stunned, Christine could barely conceive all he told her, even as some inkling of intuition hinted at what he had yet to say.

"Your brother…" she said weakly.

He gave a stiff nod. "There were two babes born to the Comtesse that night." His words came dark. "One grotesquely scarred by fate's cruel hand, followed by the second, born whole and unblemished. Aghast at their wretched lot, the parents sacrificed their firstborn at the stones, raising the second as their only begotten son, entitled to the sole inheritance of station and lands."

"Dear God," she whispered. "You are the true Vicomte de Chagny..."

He did not deny it, and she felt a little faint with the knowledge. An illusion, yes. But he believed it, and so apparently did they.

Answers to a wealth of unasked questions came unspoken – and she recalled his raids with his men of the de Chagny estate. He did not steal from the lord of the land, only took what rightfully should be his, and she remembered Tobias's odd words to that effect. She also recalled Eustace and the lad's habit of calling him "milord," which she'd thought only a respectful salutation as their leader, but now could see was much more than that.

"Do all your men know your true identity?"

He looked at her askance. "Eustace learned of my unfortunate birth when he saved me from riding headlong into one of the Vicomte's traps, to flush me out of the forest. In time, after I joined the band, Tobias and his brother, Bertram, also learned of my enemy and why. The others do not know; nor do I wish them to. I claim no ownership to that wretched family of the noblesse, nor have I any wish for the title. Nonetheless, the fool Vicomte wishes to see me dead. While I breathe, he knows that his ill-gotten gains could be seized in a battle waged, and he could end up with nothing but the cutting edge of my sword."

"Is that your plan then? To overthrow and _murder_ him – all to seize the castle? Is that what the gunpowder was for?" She recalled no such weapons as pistols or rifles yet existed, from what she had witnessed, and remembered the name by which she overheard his men call the flammable substance. "The black powder…"

"I am so entitled. It _should_ be mine." Narrowing his eyes at her curiously, he ignored her horrified question, his tone taking on a hard edge. "Do you find me unworthy of the delegation?"

She shook her head. "No – of course not. But I don't wish to see anyone _die."_

"He has abused his designation and treated ill all those who work beneath him. His tenants, the peasants of the village, none have been spared his heavy hand and unfair dealings." He paced a few steps then turned back. "During the war waged over a decade ago, he sided against Brittany, though no proof was disclosed. Aye, I might be tempted to seize what is mine – but I have no interest in those peasants who suffer under his tyrannical thumb. Nor have I plans to free them."

"I wasn't condemning you," she said with a soft sigh. In that manner he was the same, since the Phantom held no regard for those who lived and worked at the Opera House either, with the exception of Madame Giry. Small wonder, with how the cast and crew had often mocked and opposed him, with Raoul fanning the flames of their prejudice upon his arrival to Paris.

"With all you have told me, he doesn't sound like a very nice person," she said, hoping to soothe his rising ire.

At the frank understatement, he gave her a tolerant glance.

"He is a fiend of the most contemptible nature, ma damoiselle. I am considered a monster, but you would not wish to find yourself in the company of Frederick de Chagny. Have you heard of a chimera?" At the negative shake of her head, he went on. "A mythical fire-breathing beast, it has the head and body of a lion, with a goat's head rising from its back, and its tail is the head of a serpent. Fierce in its directives, obstinate in its attack, and bearing a deadly bite, always taking its victim unfairly and by surprise, the chimera is a harbinger of disaster - and the insignia on the Vicomte's coat of arms. Had you entered his campsite instead of mine, he would have seized your virtue like a prize of war, ignoring all tears shed and cries for mercy."

She frowned at the thought of being touched by such a vile man, and reached for Erik's hand.

"I'm glad that it's your men who found me. I have never once thought you a monster."

His smile was tepid at best, but he did not let go of her hand.

"You may well come to rue that night we met and the day we married," he said softly. "He will not end this vendetta, not until he's confident that I am absent from this earth. Even after he comes to forget you, if such a day should occur, you could still be in danger. Mayhap, I was remiss to act with such haste and take you as mine, thinking to protect you…"

"I don't regret it, not for a moment," she was quick to say. "But what of your father? I know little about the peerage, but if he's the Vicomte, then there must be a Comte somewhere? Is he also set to capture you?"

"My father is dead," he said without emotion. "As is my mother. My uncle is the Comte - he lives outside of Paris but has no sons. The title was passed to the next in line – the Vicomte."

"I'm sorry you were treated so badly." Her voice came soft with remorse.

Once more he looked at her strangely. "I ask again, why do you care?"

"Can it not be enough that I do?"

Silently she beseeched him not to delve further and ferret out her deep feelings for the man he once was, her dearest Angel, afraid if she spoke, she would say something wrong and he would get the mistaken impression that she loved another. He may have lost his memories, but his mind was like a steel trap in recalling those two occasions she had thoughtlessly cried out in panic, fearing for his welfare.

He stood above where she sat and looked at her a long moment.

"Stay here and rest. I will return anon."

She reached out to grip the edge of his cloak. "Where are you going?" She could not disguise the fear in her voice and tried not to panic, fearful that he might leave and trouble would again follow without her knowledge.

"It's alright," he said more gently, clasping her hand in reassurance before removing her tightened fingers from its folds. "I wish to look for the way out and for wood to build a fire to warm you. It has been years since I came here, from the forest, and I want to be assured of the exit before taking you further once night falls. I will light the lantern to dispel the darkness. Rest while I'm gone. We must journey for hours to reach the part of the forest where Hades waits."

He lit the lantern, setting it beside her

"You will come back," she whispered, "you promise?"

He studied her uplifted face, noting the tears of worry shimmer in her eyes.

"I will always return for you, Christine."

She saw the earnest gleam in his silvery-blue eyes and was reminded of that same look, when he possessively stared at her from the staircase at the Bal Masque, then weeks later, onstage, during the final act of the Don Juan – and more recently when he found her anxiously praying for his safety in the chapel.

She nodded in trust, and he lifted her hand to kiss the inside of her fingertips before he pivoted away from her, bearing the torch, and melted into the shadows.

Christine drew closer to the lantern's steady flame, her eyes following him until she could see him no more.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: Couldn't resist revisiting the brother angle for this story, since it fit well into this type of plot. ;-) Thank you again for the reviews! :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Please remember I have no one to look over this, but moi, so forgive any mistakes... And now …**

* * *

 **Chapter XVIII**

.

Christine huddled in a corner of what was once the Phantom's lair – or rather, what would become his lair – and surveyed the thick shadows with a sense of lingering disbelief.

She had viewed this place as one of magnificence, a wealth of candlelight all around, items of shimmering gold and silk, silver and velvet scattered within its wide corners and shallow alcoves in careless abandon. An underground peninsula of beauty and mystery, made even more magical by its host and owner…

This horrid cold and dark tomb failed to resemble the underground palace he had fashioned in any way at all, the formation of walls and the chill lake the only proof that this was indeed his lair…or would be.

In that moment, she deeply sympathized with the small boy who once escaped to such a dank and miserable habitation, for the first time realizing exactly how much he had altered these chambers to make it a home – and according to what he shared with Christine that long-ago night – he had done it all for her.

How badly she had treated him! Though she never set out to hurt him, never wanted that. Everything just happened so quickly and became so wretchedly confusing, with murder as a backdrop to the dreadful stage play she unwittingly had performed with both men.

She still could not fathom how all who knew him thought of him as Le Masque. Were that bandit's looks and her Phantom's truly so similar? And where _had_ the true leader of the band disappeared to? Had he been captured by someone other than the Vicomte? Slain by an enemy hand? Or was he out there even now, plotting to attack Erik for seizing his identity?

None of it made a bit of sense, and she pondered the endless list of oddities that had become her life. After some time, it occurred to her that her new bridegroom had been absent for what seemed a small eternity, and she worried that some ill wind of fortune had indeed blown his way.

On the heels of that chilling thought, something rustled in the corner, not unlike a rasp of stiff material, and far from her safe circle of lamplight.

"Eri – Maestro?" She caught herself from blurting his true name at the last second.

The silence that met her query did nothing to reassure.

She let out an exasperated breath.

"Get hold of yourself, Christine, it was likely a sudden breeze coming through the cracks above and blowing something about…" She remembered how the flames of the candles would abruptly waver, as if touched by a soft, brief wind. "Dreading the unknown is childish when you can just as easily get your duff up, off these stones, and put any fear to rest…"

She shook her head at her foolish and audible chastisement – a desperate move to make things seem normal, when they were so infinitely removed from the sane realm of the orthodox.

She pushed herself up to stand, her legs still a trifle shaky, and picked up the crude lantern. Holding it ahead of her, she moved slowly in the direction she'd heard the noise. From the glimpse she recalled of that nineteenth century portion of the Phantom's lair, the area she approached was used for storage of books and crates. Now, it should be no more than an empty, enclosed chamber, and she questioned her judgment to bother to investigate.

Still, the simple task occupied idle hands and a mind running rampant, and anything was better than sitting in one place and dwelling on frights of the unknown, which may well serve to slowly drive her mad.

Better to put at least one of her fears to rest…

A sound, like the leather sole of a shoe scraping across stone rasped from within the chamber. Was there another exit that branched out of the room, one which Erik had used?

"Maestro…? Is that you?"

Christine stepped into the room and lifted her lantern high.

A screeching cloud of darkness separated from the ceiling and dove at her. She screamed, nearly dropping her hold on the lantern while falling hard to her knees. The cloud broke off into myriad particles, flapping around her and striking against her head and shoulders. She dug her chin to her chest and threw up her arms to shield her face, struggling not to cry while begging anyone who would listen for the horrid attack to cease.

What might have been seconds or minutes later she heard a familiar curse – his wonderful voice – followed by the blessed sound of running footsteps. The swish of something heavy sliced the air in repeated strikes. Cautiously she lifted her head a fraction to peek over one arm.

Erik waved his torch with vicious intent, sending the black little demons screeching in a mass of annoyance and flying away. Christine sat immobile on her knees, tightly clutching her skirts.

With the latest threat dispersed, Erik lowered himself beside her, releasing his hold on the torch he lay upon the stone ground, his hands gentle as he clutched her shoulders and intently studied her features. His brows gathered as he frowned and wiped her cheek with his thumb. She saw the blood that smeared it when he pulled his hand away.

"'Tis but a scratch." His voice came soft and reassuring, absent of all malice, and she wanted to crawl within its beauty. "What are you doing in here, ma belle?"

"I heard a noise." Even shaken from the ordeal, her pulse raced with excitement at his touch. "I thought it might be you."

He pushed a frazzled strand of hair from her brow. She trembled, this time from memory of the attack.

"What were they?"

"Bats."

"Bats…?"

His lips twisted in an incredulous smile. "You speak as if you have never seen one."

"I haven't – until now." She shuddered in recollection of the noisome, ragged-winged creatures. "I've heard mention of them, in stories, but had yet to encounter the little beasts. It was something of a shock…" She thought of the sole type of rodent she _had_ glimpsed inside these walls. "I've seen more rats than I care to for one lifetime, though…"

"Bats are much the same, with wings. They, too, prefer the darkness of the caves."

Christine had taken the route to his lair more than once, but this dwelling, as well as the pathway to reach it, had always been well-lit. Even on the night of his escape from the Don Juan opera, scattered candles had glowed throughout the twisting corridors, and he had carried a torch. Now, in this medieval chamber of pre-Phantom darkness, there was no telling what manner of frightful creatures existed…

She again shuddered and he stood suddenly to his feet, holding his hand out to her.

"Come. Let us leave this place."

She laid her palm against his in absolute trust, not needing to ask their destination. With Erik beside her, even in the darkest chambers and most harrowing of moments, she felt reassured.

They exited into the main chamber, collected their possessions and ascended the natural pathway of stairs, taking the corridor through which he earlier disappeared, away from the lake. She recognized the area they walked through as his bedroom, vastly changed without the enormous bed. How heavenly it would be to sink into its plush feather depths at this moment, to slumber into dreams sweet and deep, with Erik beside her, holding her in the safety of his strong arms.

Christine withheld a weary sigh, determined not to display any further signs of weakness, and followed him through a passageway she never knew existed.

They walked for some time in the darkness of the twisting passageway that ever so often ascended to another level. When she felt she could walk no further, they entered a second corridor. This one she thankfully noted had daylight glimmering at its end.

"We will wait here until night falls," he said and set down the basket he carried.

Likewise she dropped the roll of pelts and sank to the ground, using the thick fur as a cushion against her lower back. She looked up to where he stared with studied deliberation at the archway of daylight a short distance ahead. He seemed troubled and she wondered why.

"Come sit with me?" she invited softly and scooted over, to give him part of the pelt.

He stood still a moment, before taking her invitation and lowering himself beside her. With one leg stretched out before him, the other bent at the knee, his forearm resting on it, he looked no more at ease, and she watched as he clenched and opened his hand repeatedly.

Christine prevented herself from reaching for that hand to hold it in reassurance, sensing by his dour mood that her act of affection would be misconstrued and unappreciated. They sat in lengthy silence. She sought in her mind for a safe topic of discussion. Their past was out of the question, both the one shared and the false one he believed, their future uncertain and not conducive to creating a peaceable atmosphere, which left only one option.

"Tell me, who is the king of France now…or is it a queen?"

He looked at her askance, as if he could still not quite believe that she would retain no memory of the century in which they dwelt.

"King Louis XII is the reigning monarch."

"And does he have a queen?"

"Anne of Brittany. It was through their marriage a few years ago that the union between France and Brittany was fortified." He narrowed his eyes in curiosity. "You are truly that interested?"

"I think I should know something about the world in which I now live. Don't you?"

He gave a huffing sort of grunt and proceeded to regale her with the recent history of Brittany and Paris.

Christine found it astounding that he could make even the mundane facts intriguing – his voice a fluid ripple of silk, sometimes dark and sensual, other times an enticing murmur of riveting softness. As her Maestro, he had often captivated her with the lessons he gave – his melodic voice the lure that had drawn her to him in the first place.

He spoke of a former "mad" war, explaining what instigated it and the current Vicomte's stance involving it.

"A second war occurred a matter of years ago…"

His words trailed off as a confused expression came across his face.

"Maestro?"

He stared toward the archway that had significantly waned to twilight. "We must go." He turned his head to look at her. "Do you feel rested enough to continue?" He stood to his feet.

At the sudden shift of his mood, she looked at him with some concern but nodded and accepted his hand as he helped her to her feet.

.

 **xXx**

.

The Phantom should be accustomed to loss of memory, as often as it occurred. Since Christine came into his life, the lapses of forgetfulness happened with frequency. In the two weeks before she arrived at his camp, he'd had only one dark spell, and before that…well, he simply did not remember.

What served to addle him now was that those former lapses of recall had always been personal, involving his life alone. True, he had been too young to recall details of the Mad War, but surely would have recalled the country's most recent affairs of state and not forgotten completely why the country had bloody well fought – even with whom the feud had been! That he recalled there even _was_ a war and had forgotten all details gave him some cynical amount of amusement. Soon, he would be as challenged in overall memory as his dear wife who believed she came from a different epoch of time...

Truly, they were well matched.

He felt the tentative slip of her free hand loop softly against his arm.

The Phantom glanced her way, and his heart jarred against his ribs at the anxious little smile she gave. A small tremor inside his chest compared to the vicious jolt that slammed against his ribs when he had heard her terrified screams in the cave. A rush of fear had swept through him, as it had twice before – once at the lake in the forest, once on a dark Parisian street. To see the dark cloud of winged vermin swoop in and dive at her as she cowered helplessly on the ground had produced a fury within, to unleash his wrath on those attackers without.

The tears that had glistened in her eyes she'd turned up to him in relief twisted his heart then and now, spurring another memory unrelated to those experienced with her, one that seemed to come from the depths of a dream… a dark night of the soul…

"Maestro…are you alright?"

Her careful words brought him to the present and his lips twisted in a careless smile. "Of course. Once I locate my horse, we will make camp."

However Hades could not be found, though the Phantom scoured every foot of ground in the area where Tobias was to have tethered the stallion. His search produced a length of rope, frayed at one end. His horse had either broken loose or been stolen. Again.

No doubt by one of the Vicomte's men.

"Damn the scoundrel's worthless hide," he exclaimed through gritted teeth.

He returned to where he had left Christine sitting on a fallen log and holding the lantern. She stood immediately upon hearing the grass rustle and whirled to face him. Seeing her panic ease only slightly once she saw him, he shelved his angry frustration at their dilemma.

"Is everything alright?"

She huffed out a tense laugh. "It seems you are forever asking me that question – or I am asking you." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "It's only that I'm a bit jumpy…er nervous," she clarified. "I know I've said it before, but I don't like the darkness."

"The darkness can be beautiful, if you look beyond its shadows."

Christine shivered at how much he spoke like the Angel he'd once been to her.

"Yes, I know. The starlight. The moonlight…"

"Nocturnal beacons of celestial light, yes, but I speak of a different beauty."

He blew out the lantern, and, to her shock, doused the torch. The darkness that followed was absolute.

"Maestro…" She could not keep the apprehensive tremor from her voice. "What on earth are you doing? Why did you put out the fire?"

"It is easy enough to light again."

"But _why_?!"

She couldn't see him, but she felt him, even before he stepped behind her. He wrapped his arm about the front of her waist, pressing her fully against him, his lips barely touching the rim of her ear. Her heart lurched then raced, and fear took a sudden sharp turn toward desire.

"To experience the beauty of the night," he whispered, "You must attune yourself as one with your surroundings…"

Her eyes fluttered and fell shut at the power he held over her, had always held over her. Power that only intensified since they had become one and she discovered those intimate mysteries…

"Do not try to shut out the darkness, ma damoiselle, nor ignore it. Embrace it…and listen to the melody that can only be heard within its dark splendor."

Within his loose embrace, the usual terror of a world absent of light did not rend her senses. With her beloved protector so close, she could allow herself to relax and surrender the fear that had plagued her since childhood, the tension slowly seeping from her limbs as she melted back against him. For the first time, perhaps ever in her life and without any sense of dread to spur her, she relaxed into her surroundings, attuning to its nuance of whispers...

The breeze was cool and soft, stirring the leaves, the chirrup of night insects and the whisper of long grasses adding to the night's melody.

"The sounds are lovely," she admitted, "but there is no beauty to see. It's too dark."

"Open your eyes," he whispered, gently cupping her chin and turning her head in another direction.

Christine gasped to see many blinking pinpricks of muted golden lights wafting near a cluster of distant bushes.

"What are they?" she softly exclaimed.

"Have you never seen fireflies?"

Had she? She couldn't recall any such experience. The night for her had always been something to evade, the occasions rare when she engaged in outside activities after twilight, especially once she began living at the Opera House. She remembered so little of her childhood prior to that.

"They are so beautiful…" she breathed. "Like dancing fairies."

"The night is not all about the darkness. Concealed within its folds, it possesses its own muted glory."

A faraway howl broke into their wondrous moment, shaking her calm.

"The wolves…"

He sighed and moved away, making her wish she'd not said a thing.

"It's alright. It takes little time to produce a fire."

She heard the crack and scrape of flint strike until sparks shot out and caught the oil-soaked cloth. His movements, as with everything he did, were smooth and skilled, and soon the torch blazed, once more burning a golden orb of reassurance into the blackness. She watched as he securely staked the torch upright into soft earth, anchoring the bottom of the stake with small rocks.

"We're staying here?" she asked in some surprise. "I thought perhaps we'd ride further into the forest. Isn't this too close?" They had walked an uneven path for hours, but the dark silhouette of the sleeping city did not seem distant enough. "Will someone not see the smoke from our fire?"

"Not within these trees, not in the pitch black of night. Nor will we be riding. We must continue our journey on foot come morn, so you will need to get what rest you may."

She blinked in surprise. "Could you not find Hades?"

"Hades is gone. Perhaps he broke away, perhaps he was again taken."

Her mouth dropped open at the startling news. Even more startling was his placid composure, so unlike the Phantom that once terrorized the Opera House for ignoring his commands.

"You don't seem that upset."

"It is only a façade, I assure you. The Vicomte will get what is coming to him."

She shivered at the steel underlying the quiet silk of his tone. "You're so sure that he's the one responsible?"

"He has done so before. His ploy is to diminish my resources and leave me with nothing, cornered, like an animal to his trap." He turned fully to face her, twin pinpoints of fire mirrored in his eyes. "He will not succeed. What he has failed to recall is that a cornered animal can be the most deadly..."

Mentally and physically exhausted, Christine sank back down to sit on the fallen log and watched as he dug a shallow concave area then gathered branches, setting them in the center of the circle to build a fire. Once the flames caught, he unrolled the pelts.

"Lie down and sleep. I will keep watch."

"You need rest too," she countered.

"I am accustomed to going without slumber for as much as a week. Regardless, I slept well last night." His voice grew softer as he drew closer. "Having you beside me, both of us in accord, gave me a measure of calm that has been previously absent."

She accepted his hand to help her rise and smiled, pleased to hear it. Erik might not remember her, but at least she influenced his life in a helpful manner.

"Thank you, for showing me the darkness through your eyes. There truly is beauty in what cannot be seen…"

His mouth quirked wryly at her double entendre and she felt satisfied that he correctly interpreted her meaning. One day, she hoped soon, he would let her see beyond the mask.

His lips brushed her jaw near her mouth, but before she could turn and seek the satisfaction of his lips on hers, he pulled away.

"Sleep, Christine."

She crawled inside the pelts, watching him as he sat near, beside the fire, reminiscent of the last time they made camp together. To her knowledge, he didn't sleep then either. She wished he would abandon the night watch and come lay down beside her, but understood his reasoning and felt safe knowing that her dark Angel was again her safeguard.

That he remained upset was apparent, and she wished he would trust her as a confidante. She sensed his missing horse wasn't all that troubled him.

.

 **xXx**

.

The dawn came sooner than Christine would have preferred. Similar to the last occasion, Erik woke her with a firm shake to her shoulder. This time, she was not so foolish to call him by name. And this time, thankfully, there were no scratchy robes emitting putrid odors – and her long undergown of a chemise was finally dry.

Christine ate the berries Erik had picked for them while she'd made herself more presentable, or at least respectable, then helped him gather their belongings, again grabbing the lantern while he took the remainder.

"Would you like me to carry the pelts?" she offered.

"I am well able to manage."

While he had proven that true, carrying the many items was clearly awkward, especially without a beast to bear the burden for the distance they must travel. And she sensed the actual reason he declined.

"Really, Maestro - I'm not some fragile doll that needs constantly to be mollycoddled. I feel much recovered, and can do my fair share of the work."

His brow lifted at her choice of words and the edge of frustration with which she said them.

"Very well, ma damoiselle. If you wish it."

At her nod, he plunked the thick bundle of furs in her outstretched arms, and they continued their long journey back to his camp.

"What is 'mollycoddled'?"

She would choose a word not known in this century, never mind that he had been the one to teach it to her!

"It means to pamper and indulge."

He was silent a moment. "What if _I wish_ to pamper and indulge you? Are those not the acts a husband should bestow upon his new bride?"

The silken flow of his words produced a ripple of warmth to the center of her being.

"I…um…" She cleared her throat. "I like to be pampered now and then, there's not a woman alive who doesn't. But I just want you aware that I'm not made of porcelain."

"Porcelain?"

Oh, good heavens.

"China. Ceramic…?" At the perplexed shake of his head, she blurted, "a clay jar!"

"I am distinctly aware that you are not composed of clay, ma belle, but of silken flesh and warm blood."

"I-I suppose I used to be like clay," she said, flustered by the manner in which he spoke, clearly alluding to their encounters of intimacy. "Flawed, easy to shatter - but not any longer. I'm stronger than I once was."

He glanced her way. "Duly noted. I will award you your fair share of tasks and not treat you as… _porcelain_."

Her lips turned up at the corners with the baffled way he said the word, and she felt amazed that despite the dilemma they faced – running for their lives and without a horse to carry them – she could find something to laugh about.

Through the closely interwoven branches of towering trees that surrounded them, she noticed the skies were overcast, a light opalescent grey.

"How is it that you know which direction to go?" she asked. "With no compass or the sun for guidance, I would be thoroughly lost…" Though in all likelihood, she would be lost while in possession of both.

"Do you see how the moss grows in abundance only on one side of the trees?"

She looked at the trees behind her, having noticed but never having put much thought into the reason for such a discrepancy.

"The moss prefers the north. Because it spreads thickly on the side of the trunks not facing us, we are traveling north."

She looked at him with no small amount of awe.

"How is it that you even _know_ these things?"

He looked at her strangely. "Living as an outcast in the forest for the majority of my life does tend to aid in one's education."

"Of course. I wasn't thinking…"

From what she knew of Erik, his home for most of his life had been _under_ the earth not on top of it. So it made no sense that he could be such a skilled woodsman in so few weeks, unless he'd read of such methods of survival within the pages of the many books he owned as the Phantom, and retained that knowledge deep within, which she supposed was a distinct possibility.

However, asking such inane questions clearly made him suspicious, considering what he had shared of his presumed history. Since the past was taboo, and the future brought unease, to opt for silence was the safest path. At least for now. Of course that could not continue - she didn't want him to think she was ignoring him either. Somehow she must find a way to bridge the chasm into acceptable conversation that protected them both, God help her. The question was how?

They walked for most of the morning, with only the birdsong and the wind rustling through the leaves to provide accompaniment to her thoughts, reminding her of the previous evening and Erik's lesson in its beauty. He had taught her to appreciate the music of the night, both here and at the Opera House with his dark but beautiful compositions and angelic voice, changing the course of her heart on so many things.

With him near, the darkness did not seem as fearful…it never did.

After what felt like hours, they rested near a stream. While she patted her face and neck with the refreshing water, he disappeared into the trees, wearing his mask, and returned with one side of his face again wrapped in burlap.

At the curious lift of her brow, he explained, "People are less inclined to fear or ask questions when it appears as if I'm only wounded, not masked as a bandit."

"People?"

"If my calculations are correct, we will soon be approaching a village. There, I will see about obtaining a horse."

They continued north. After a short time, a thin trail of smoke curled up in the distance ahead, a sign that they were finally nearing some form of civilization – however civil such an ancient culture could be. Still, Christine knew relief, because where there was smoke, there would be the promised people, and hopefully also an inn and the conclusion of the day's journey.

Minutes later, a village appeared through the fringe of trees, containing little more than a dozen buildings. People milled about at their tasks, and Christine was grateful to note that no soldiers or other form of law enforcement could be seen.

"Do you think they'll have an inn?" she asked the question uppermost in her mind.

His eyes swept her form and he gave a curt nod, pointing to a building with a sign that she wondered how he could even read from this distance.

"We will acquire a room, so that you may rest."

"What about you?"

"I must see to finding a horse."

They descended the shallow hill and walked among ramshackle buildings that looked as if a strong wind might knock them down, until they came to a three-story dwelling with the crooked sign Erik earlier pointed out, announcing their destination.

"Come…" He took hold of her elbow with his free hand.

She held back in sudden indecision. "No…wait."

The bed rest that earlier appealed no longer lured her, not if she must inhabit a strange room in this strange village alone, however briefly. She'd had enough of solitude at Notre Dame. Unwanted, the memory of the nightmare and her execution as a witch tormented her soul.

"I want to come with you."

"You must be exhausted –"

She briskly shook her head. "I want to come with you."

Their eyes locked. For a moment it looked as if he might argue, but he turned aside.

"Come then, if you wish it."

Christine tried not to concentrate on her weariness, pushing it aside, and walked with him through the square and to the open stall of the blacksmith, where the steady strikes of a hammer hitting metal rang through the air.

"You want something?" the blacksmith asked, halting his work.

The Phantom glanced at his bride, who looked as if she might drop if someone blew in her direction too hard, and nodded toward a wooden box with boards nailed to the top.

The grizzled blacksmith glanced her way as she took a seat on the box, a comfortable distance from the fiery forge, then looked toward the Phantom and grunted. Decades of his craft had honed the craftsman's arms and shoulders into a bulk of muscle as strong as the glowing red strip of iron he held with tongs and hammered on an anvil. Sweat and ash streaked his damp face, neck, and beard, coloring his homespun shirt to gray.

"You meet with an accident?"

The Phantom curbed the swift impulse to lapse into anger, despising when others pointed out anything with regard to his monstrous flaw. He had known that to bandage his face would invite curiosity, but it afforded him the anonymity he could never possess with a bandit's mask and a reward hanging over his head. What disturbed him most was to see Christine's eyes suddenly widen in shock as she also focused on the bound cloth that covered his scarred flesh.

"A loss of my horse," he answered gruffly, looking back to the blacksmith. "Know you where I may procure another?"

"You'll not be findin' horseflesh for market in this village." The blacksmith struck the fiery strip of iron with his hammer, a shower of golden sparks flying upward.

"The two mares tied up outside. Is one yours?"

The blacksmith squinted. "'Tain't my beasts. But the gent who owns both will not likely be wishing to part with either. They are here to be shod."

"Where can I find this man?"

"Like as not he be at the tavern. Look for a foreigner. Barely speaks the language." He struck iron with his hammer again.

The Phantom nodded. "I shall need supplies."

"They don't come free."

"I can pay." He held up a gold coin, at last gaining the blacksmith's undivided attention.

Once he related all that he needed, which the craftsman told him would be available the next day, the Phantom nodded toward Christine to follow and exited the stall.

She came up beside him. "Do you think he'll sell his horse to you?"

"I mean to use every method of persuasion available to achieve that end."

"Thank you."

He glanced her way in puzzlement. "For?"

"For not resorting to methods most familiar and," she lowered her voice, "stealing the horse."

His lips twitched at the corners. "Perhaps your presence is conducive to redeeming my black and tarnished soul."

She rolled her eyes a little at his wryly amused words. In truth, months ago he would have absconded with the beast when all eyes were looking elsewhere and thought nothing of it. But with Christine by his side, now as his wife, he dared not take the risk, and would do all he could to protect her from harm.

They drew abreast of a well, where some of the villagers gathered, and Christine held back. Again, he looked her way.

"Do you mind?" she asked. "I'm rather parched."

His brows drew together in remorse. "I will obtain a flask to replace what we lost."

He hesitated and looked toward the villagers, all who openly gawked at him as if he was a scorned prisoner just returned from exile, a few also glancing at Christine, the question clear in their eyes as to what she was even doing in his company...

She wrapped her free arm through his in a show of trust, hoping the suspicious and curious would now turn aside and continue with their tasks.

Had no one ever seen a man with a cloth bandage wound around his head? She drew her brows together in concern at the spot of blood that had soaked through it. And _how_ had he injured himself...?

A silver-haired scarecrow of a woman handed Christine her wooden dipper, smiling and nodding for her to take a turn with it. Christine regarded the unexpected show of kindness with astonishment, softly thanking her. At least not all the villagers here thought they had contracted the plague.

She dropped the bundle of furs and collected a dipperful, the cool water refreshing to her dry throat, then dipped again and handed it to Erik, cupping the ladle to catch any that spilled as she held it up to him. He looked at her in surprise and glanced at the people behind, but briefly accepted the ladle and took a drink. She turned to give the dipper back, but the old woman was gone. Christine scanned the vicinity, but failed to see her anywhere.

Curious, but not overly so, she laid the dipper on the stone rim of the well and picked up the pelts.

"Come," Erik said, taking her arm, and together they walked into the nearby tavern.

The one room was dimly lit with torches high on stone walls, rife with the stink of sweat and bitter with the odor of pungent ale. Groups of men sat around small tables, with the exception of a cloaked man who sat alone at a far table. The crimson feather in his curved black hat was unlike any style she had seen in Paris. Erik also must have come to the conclusion that this was the foreigner of horses they sought.

She followed him over the rushes, sodden with spilled ale and trodden from many shoes, to the far table.

"Pardon, monsieur," he greeted. "Are those your horses outside?"

The man turned to look at them, his slim dark brows lifting in curious shock at Erik's covered visage. He sported a fine black mustache and small goatee - and dark eyes that once they left Erik never wavered from Christine.

The Phantom bristled at the foreigner's clear interest in his wife.

"They are _miei cavalli. Sì. Perché lo chiedi_?" His brows puzzled as he tried to translate. "Why you ask?"

From her years of learning the operas, Christine deduced that the man spoke Italian, and searched her mind for how to reply with "we wish to purchase one." Unfortunately, those librettos never had the characters sing with such phrasing.

"I ask that you sell one to me - _Vendere uno_."

Christine's eyes widened with shock at the Italian that slipped from his lips, and she noted the bafflement that lit his own uncovered eye before he continued.

"My wife and I were robbed of our horse and have far to travel. I will pay well. _Ti pago bene_." At this he pulled his cloak aside a fraction, drawing attention to the pouch of coins tied to his belt. He made sure that the sword hanging at his waist was also seen.

The little Italian man shook his head in refusal, but invited them to sit at his table. Erik bought a round of ale. Christine sipped the dark stout brew, listening with amazement as the two men discussed and haggled, the foreigner revealing himself as a traveling merchant, and Erik's use of Italian growing more fluent the longer they spoke.

As Le Masque, when she told him of the opera, he mentioned he did not know the language. As her Maestro of the Opera House, it wouldn't surprise her to learn that he had gained more than a passing knowledge of Italian while learning music, something obviously retained – but this must be quite bewildering to him since he had no recollection of those days.

The men talked, and another round of ale was ordered. Erik's magnanimous gesture proved beneficial as the Italian merchant grew relaxed and compliant. Christine was still nursing her first ale when the third round came, and shortly following that, the foreigner's agreement to sell one of his horses.

Erik retrieved a handful of gold coins from his purse slapping them to the table and pushing them toward the Italian, who nodded and pocketed each one, clearly inebriated. Erik stood and looked at Christine.

"Shall we go?"

"But – that's it? Don't you need a bill of sale?" She had seen the staff and crew sign and exchange papers when crates of goods were delivered backstage to the opera house.

At his mystified expression, she sighed. "A written agreement – something to show the blacksmith and anyone else who might inquire. Proof you didn't steal the horse."

His eyes narrowed, his mouth a grim line, but he considered her words then nodded. Locating a scrap of vellum and a hunk of coal, he wrote words to that effect, then signed it and gave the coal to the Italian to do the same. The man did not question, could barely remain sitting upright, and scribbled his name onto the vellum. Task accomplished, Erik rolled up the vellum and slipped it inside his cloak then looked her way.

"Christine?"

She joined her husband, noting that the two and a half tankards of ale seemed to have little effect on him as he walked steadily and swiftly with her to the door. She, on the other hand, felt a trifle giddy from the one tankard she had imbibed.

"I regret to inform you that I have only enough coin for a meal or for a bed, but not both," he said brusquely. "The price of the horse and supplies were far more than I anticipated, so you must choose."

They stepped outdoors, and Christine's eyes immediately sought out the well. A different group of villagers now gathered near it. On each side stood places of commerce, resembling stalls made of rock and wood, more than actual shops. One sold clay jars and similar containers. Another appeared to sell grain.

An idea beckoned, perhaps influenced by the strong brew clouding her mind, but the more she thought on it, the greater the appeal, reminding Christine of her nomadic childhood and traveling with her Papa, before making a home at the Opera and finding her Angel there...

"Christine?" he prodded.

She gave him a saucy grin. "Who says we must choose, when we can have both?"

"You don't understand. I would want a private chamber, not a common room where the accursed can gawk and stare, and that will require more coin, all I have left," he said somewhat impatiently.

"I do understand – I wouldn't want to share a room with strangers either. But do you recall earlier today when I asked you to allow me to do my fair share of the work? This is the perfect occasion – I will _sing_ for our supper!"

Her smile widened with barely contained zeal, and she grabbed his cloaked arm in her excitement.

His confusion was apparent.

"Come, dear Maestro, I will show you..."

And with those words, she urged him toward the well.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: No cliffie here – aren't I nice? ;-) – Don't worry though, those of you who love the heart-stopping action and the drama and the tense, jaw-dropping scenes - I have more planned for these two…enjoy the lulls while you can – these quiet moments of E/C bonding. :)…Also, while writing this chapter, I noticed a peculiar and unintentional trend with a few of my stories – (well, I have a few of those) but through no fault of his own, Erik can never seem to keep track of his horse! LOL**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) They are always so much appreciated…Child of Dreams - in answer to your question - I fashioned Tobias more after Fergus, since they're around the same age (both have the same kind of mindset - both are orphans, both idolize the leader of their rebel band, are important to him, and look to the leader's beautiful woman with a schoolboy-like crush-but also as a substitute mother, etc). Phantom Phan- I'll think about it - I need to watch that movie again and see if I get inspired with any ideas, though PotO story-wise I have quite a bit on my plate right now (with more waiting in the wings), so it will be some time before I embark on it, if I do decide to try it. ;-)- And now I return you to Erik and Christine …**

* * *

 **Chapter XIX**

.

They approached the well, Christine a bit apprehensive that this was all a dreadful mistake...

She had sung for him before, of course – once to comfort during the black spell, and he had forgotten. Once, when he was fully alert, and he responded with a kiss. Then she had sung an aria to remind him of their past, and though she failed in the attempt, he had not suffered for it. Indeed, the music they once shared in another lifetime, so much a part of their souls, had not induced any manner of physical torments: to sing, the one token of their past that felt safe, and for that Christine knew immense relief.

To silence the voice her Maestro had shaped seemed an offense, to sing for him a desire rooted deep inside her heart...

Her present worry stemmed from a different nature.

Christine glanced at Erik, noting his unease to be among the villagers, evident by the steely set of his jaw and the manner in which he evaded all eye contact with his one unconcealed eye. But there was little choice to be made. They needed money from those who gawked and stared – so let her voice be the lure for their attention, drawing their interest away from her glowering Phantom while hopefully enticing the townspeople to surrender their coin.

From within the basket Erik carried, Christine looked through those essentials he had scavenged at Notre Dame and pulled up a brass plate with a shallow curved lip – not exactly a bowl, and they had no violin case like Papa once used for contributions, so the plate would have to serve her purpose.

Erik bent close, his one eye solemn. "What exactly are you doing? What do you think to accomplish by this?"

She set the plate on the ground in front of them and straightened.

"Exactly what I said I would. My song will give us coin." Her lips curled upward in a coaxing smile and she reached for his hand, squeezing it. "It might help if you add your own to the plate, to show why it's there."

Her voice wasn't in top form, due to lack of practice, and she had no idea if this era contained traveling entertainers. Though she did recall an opera set in the 17th century with a minstrel in the king's court. Nor did she know if those troubadours that traveled the countryside were rewarded with payment for their music. But of one thing she was certain – these villagers would be the first in this epoch of time to hear an aria from an opera, the style of elocution unique to any folk song or ballad they might know, and certainly the strangeness of it would gain their keen interest if nothing else. That gave her cause to feel optimistic that her idea would succeed.

At the Opera, during a performance, the orchestra played a prelude of notes. With her Papa, when singing in the streets, she relied on his violin. At practice, her Maestro once played for her as well. With no accompaniment and no guiding notes, Christine sent up a silent prayer, took a deep breath, glancing briefly toward her teacher, and let the first lines of song fly from her lips.

Taking on the role of Marguerite, she sang one of the more lighthearted arias of the Faust Grand Opera, imagining the jewels she'd just found and the mirror held in her hand.

At the first crystalline note of her voice, every head turned to stare in shock. Some regarded her with avid disbelief, others in curious caution as if she'd gone a bit barmy, watching her sing and mimic Marguerite's gestures. She glided in dance and flitted around the well, continuing to enthuse over the beautiful and invisible jewels she'd found, relieved that at least the villagers, many who did not hesitate to make a path for her, had no understanding of the words. Had they been able to follow along, they would indeed think her insane. In retrospect, she could have stood immobile and they wouldn't know the difference – could cease with dancing now – but this was how she'd last been taught, so she might as well see it through to the end.

The Opera House often revised the librettos to French, but her Maestro also taught her to sing in the languages the operas had been written, instructing her that she must learn to be fluent. Having told her that with her sublime voice, one day she would take the stage to other parts of the world and should be familiar with their native tongues…

She realized weeks ago, after that tragic night of the Don Juan, his intention must have been to flee with her from France. Perhaps he had planned it from the beginning of their acquaintance as teacher to student. And she couldn't help but wonder where they would be at this moment, if only she had turned back once more that fateful night and refused to leave him alone in his lair…

Certainly not in the sixteenth century.

The Phantom watched Christine in baffled wonder, briefly glancing at her audience of unworthy peasants, noting how they ogled her with the same curious astonishment. The skies were leaden and overcast, but her face shimmered with the luminescence of a pearl, an angel that had stepped down to grace the undeserving inhabitants of earth with her song.

Her eyes shone, animated with delight, meeting his gaze briefly before again looking out over the crowd. Customers of nearby merchants stopped what they were doing to walk closer and stare, a few having left nearby buildings to see.

While she sang and danced around the well, the Phantom stood motionless and watched, though his soul soared, carried away by her magnificent voice. Flashes of thoughts – _memories?_ – raced through his mind: An empty indoor stage in the dead of night, dimly lit by one candelabra. A girl alone, younger than Christine. Singing the same song – a song he understood in a language he should not know – dancing with her back to him, as Christine now danced. In the child's small hands she held aloft a gaudy necklace of paste, the voice somewhat immature and not as well defined…

His troubadour of a bride turned with her arms upraised as did the younger image in his mind.

 ** _Christine_** … _?_

Her unique voice trilled to unbelievable heights, a few notes held to impossible lengths. The villagers gaped in astonishment, clearly having heard nothing like this aria from Faust…

 _Faust_?

Why should he think that? What or who was Faust and why should he even link such an odd but familiar name to her song of receiving jewels and imagining herself as a king's daughter?

Any further deliberation of confusion came to a temporary close as Christine's song found completion after another emotive waterfall of melodic notes, high and rich in splendor. At the finish, she gave a small, graceful curtsy. The crowd hurrahed, tossing a shower of coins at her feet, completely ignoring the plate on which the Phantom initially placed three.

With a benign smile, she nodded her thanks and stooped gracefully to the ground to collect the copper coins, one by one. He began to join her, when he noticed a thief who crouched a short distance away, helping himself to her earnings. In one swift move, the Phantom pulled his sword from where it was hidden inside his cloak, the ring of it slicing through the air, and closed the short distance, bringing the blade to rest just beneath the fiend's bearded chin.

"I suggest you drop the coins in yonder plate and hasten far from this well, if you don't want your throat sliced end to end."

The vagrant let the coins drop where they may and scuttled back like a crab, his eyes wide on the blade before lifting them to the Phantom's covered face. He grimaced and awkwardly scrambled to a stand, running as fast as his spindly legs could carry him.

"Good enough," the Phantom muttered. He sheathed his sword and collected the rescued coins.

"Maestro…?"

At the nervous bent to Christine's words, he looked up to see that she'd drawn close with the plate in her hand. Her eyes glanced in the direction the thief disappeared then looked to him. She gave an uncertain smile.

"Is this enough for a meal?"

The bottom of the plate could scarce be seen for the small copper discs that filled it.

"Two of those will obtain a meat pie, one a tankard of ale. You have provided us a meal for the night and to break the fast in the morn, with many coins to spare. Yet your voice is the true prize, ma damoiselle. Never have I heard a performance so splendid."

Her smile grew even more lovely, while still seeming shy. "I'm delighted that my song pleased you, Maestro, and that at last I've been able to do something to help."

She offered the plate to him and he retrieved his purse, pulling loose the drawstring. As he held it open, she poured in the coins that she'd collected to join the few he had left for a room.

The crowd had thinned, returning to their duties with the entertainment ended, a few lingering nearby and glancing their way in avid curiosity. Even with their attitudes changed from hostile suspicion to tolerant acceptance, he did not wish to remain the focus of attention.

"Shall we see to purchasing the meal you have so well earned?"

"Oh, yes, please. I'm famished." She smiled in delight and wrapped her arm through his.

He had wedded her and bedded her, but these simple gestures of acceptance and expressions of need still managed to tug sharply at the Phantom's heart. Indeed, ever since she had stumbled into his tent and into his life, he felt…changed.

They returned to the tavern, where they took a table at the back. The Italian merchant had gone, likely somewhere to sleep off his inebriation. It was a wonder he'd been able to sign the bill of sale, and again the Phantom thought it odd that a seemingly naïve woman like Christine should perceive such matters of business to advise him.

In all likelihood she would insist such knowledge came from the future century to which she thought she belonged. He still disputed the absurdity of traveling into another era via the standings stones as rational, much less possible. But the more time he spent in her presence the greater his doubts mushroomed, and the more certainty loosed its hold on what was considered sane.

Mayhap, with the most recent addition of disturbing visions to add to his black spells, he was truly going mad too.

There was nothing for it. Now that they traveled alone he would delve into the matter, to the place it allegedly started...

A buxom barmaid sauntered up to their table, brushing a little too close for his liking, and by Christine's frown, much as she'd looked at Isabel in the brothel, she did not approve of this woman either. He ordered two meat pies and tankards of ale, also securing a room for the night. With the present lack of privacy, he spoke with Christine of inconsequential matters. The township and its villagers. Her stunning performance. Their imminent plans. Yet the questions that continued to run rampant through his mind nearly drowned out her voice, and he again grew distant, noting Christine's confused glances his way.

The food arrived, and they ate in silence. After supper, the owner of the establishment, an old man who could not seem to cease staring at the burlap tied around the Phantom's face, handed him a lamp, and he and Christine ascended the narrow staircase to their room to retire for the night.

The chamber was cramped, a hovel certainly, containing a deficient cot, along with a clay pitcher and basin that sat on the floorboards – both stone dry – with no hearth to light for warmth and no window to let in the approaching sunset. Still, what this temporary shelter lacked in creature comforts, it made up for in privacy.

The Phantom hung the lamp on a hook protruding from the wall. "I will see to collecting water."

He had no wish to approach the rude tavern keeper a second time and would accomplish the task himself, knowing of Christine's partiality for cleanliness before she slumbered and when she awoke.

His weary wife sank to the sagging mattress and rested her calf against one knee, using her fingers and thumbs to massage the balls of her feet.

"Might I have a sponge or something similar to wash with as well?"

"I shall see to it."

xXx

Christine's grateful smile faded into a frown of concern as Erik closed the door behind him.

He was definitely troubled and had been since supper. Perhaps he did not truly appreciate her performance. Her Maestro had been very exacting, and though he had no recollection of being her teacher and had readily given his praise, perhaps deep down he'd found fault...

Of course he'd found fault – she had taken no opportunity to warm up, and had not sung professionally in weeks! In truth, had not sung a note at all until she fell into this century and again found him.

Christine sighed and pulled the kirtle over her head, leaving on the chemise. Pulling back the worn blanket she scrunched her nose at the soiled bedding and threw the blanket back up over the mattress in disgust. Did the servants of this establishment even wash the bed linens between customers? Needing to improvise an acceptable bed, Christine took one of the large pelts, spreading it over the shabby blanket. The lush dark fur draped over every corner of the small cot, and she winced, thinking how awkward it would be for her large husband, who, though quite lean, was of considerable height and breadth of shoulder.

She pensively glanced at the dirt-streaked floor that the establishment did not bother to clean either. Perhaps, she should make a bed for them there and dispense with the cot altogether. From what she had seen in this century, clearly no common bed existed to fit her husband's stature, and _he was_ accustomed to sleeping on the forest floor as Le Masque…

The creak of wooden hinges alerted her to his prompt return, and she looked over her shoulder at him.

Erik regarded her where she sat on the pelt on the bed, a large basin held in his hands. With a careless nudge of his boot, he kicked the door closed and walked toward her, setting the basin of water at her feet.

"Merci." Her voice was a wisp of breath, overcome as always by his sudden nearness.

He knelt at her feet and looked up at her, studying her face. His gaze lowered along her neck and to the tops of her shoulders visible above the snug chemise, resting there, before he lowered his eyes again. For all the attention he paid her, his manner seemed distant, brooding, but before she could at last inquire what made him so tense, he lifted her foot in his hands.

Any words Christine may have uttered died in her throat. With wide eyes she watched his large hands and slender fingers untie the lacings of her cloth slipper and pull it from her foot. A rush of embarrassed humility made her curl her toes, drawing them beneath her foot, as if by doing so she could hide them – she had never cared much for them, thinking them too long, her feet rather big for a woman and so filthy from the day's journey besides!

She cringed and tried to jerk her foot back, but his hold remained firm around her ankle. He glanced up briefly in mild warning then cupped the sole of her foot in his warm palm, bringing the wet sponge over the top. The cold water trickled over her skin just as shivers of delight trickled up her spine.

"Maestro…" The muscle in her calf tightened as she again tried to pull away. "You shouldn't do this."

His response was to swirl the sponge in the water, again bringing it to her foot, beneath the arch this time. "Why should I not?"

"I am no one – that is, I'm unused to being served. I'm no true lady of means, as I told you…"

His grasp on her foot tightened, his blue-grey eyes again lifting to hers, the shimmer in them intense. "You are indeed a lady," he argued. "Never think otherwise."

His thumbs began to press in little, massaging circles, and Christine gasped at the wondrous feel of pressure, her eyes sliding shut as the aches dissolved more and more with each revolution of his magical touch.

After a while, he gently set her pampered foot down against his thigh and reached for the slipper-encased one, beginning to untie that ribbon as well. Her eyes flew open.

"But I shouldn't be the one to - I mean - what of your face?" She just prevented herself from reaching toward the burlap in concern.

His own movements grimly stilled. "What of my face?"

At the heavy warning note in his tone, she carefully stated, "It's bleeding, or it was. There's a spot that bled through the cloth – I noticed it in the stables. I should be the one tending to you."

"It is nothing," he offhandedly cast her words aside, also denuding her of her other slipper. His fingertips brushed a feather-light trickle against her instep with the motion, and she softly drew an intake of breath. In his large, warm hands, her feet felt dainty and feminine as they never had, his touch warming her blood.

"I offer you so little," he went on darkly, his voice angry though his touch remained gentle as he washed her foot. "You are accustomed to finer quality."

"That's not true," she countered, surprised by his sudden switch in mood, though by now she should be quite accustomed to her Angel's erratic temperaments after years of knowing him, even if it was beyond the walls as a believed entity from on high. "I have never once complained with what you've given me. Well, except for that awful disguise of a robe - but I understood that was necessary to protect us. What I _don't_ understand is why you're even bringing this up?"

In truth, she had felt greater contentment hiding with Erik in stark quarters than she had known while living the life of luxury at the Chateau Martinique with Raoul.

"You should not have to work so that we may eat."

She blinked in baffled shock.

"But I _love_ to sing," she argued. _Especially_ _for you_ , her thoughts supplied. "It is my life and, I believe, a chief purpose for which I was created."

He stood slowly to his feet. "It seems a bizarre life for a woman."

Christine fought despair that **_he_** should say such things, reminding herself that he spoke from a medieval mindset, with no recollection of being her Maestro.

"Perhaps, but it is my life and my choice. Or it was. I recall my father saying that the thespian is a strange breed. Our work is creativity, and to survive we must entertain. Not because we feel an obligation to perform, but because we feel _a need_." She looked up at him, her eyes sincere. "To sing is all I have known, ever since I can remember. It is the breath of my soul - music..."

His nod came remote, his attention elsewhere as he picked up the basin.

"I will collect fresh water."

Taken aback by his abrupt disinterest, Christine stared ahead in confusion as he slipped from the room. With a frustrated little sigh, she glanced down at her bare toes, covering one foot with the other.

Had she said too much? Certainly, she had said too much. She shouldn't have brought up the discussion of music. Or Papa. Or perhaps it was the part about music being the breath of her soul – had her Maestro not once said much the same? Or...

Her eyes widened in revelation. Oh, hell's bells and buckets of blood – with how she had raved on and on about it, he likely thought she preferred music over him, and regretted giving up her career to sing – what little of that she had in this era – for a wedded life with her Phantom. She simply must disavow him of such a foolish notion at once.

Determined to be more careful to rein in her feckless tongue, she clasped her hands in her lap and waited, staring at a reddish-brown splotch on the wall and shivering to wonder its origin. Was that blood? With how matters were so violently dealt with in this era and considered routine, it wouldn't surprise her if it was.

He was gone far longer than before and her present train of thought did not aid her peace of mind. She feared that he must have had another spell or that something equally wicked had befallen him, imagining him calling out to her, his bleeding body lying in the dirt or imprisoned - and was ready to tie on her slippers and go in search of him, when the door finally swung open.

A second time he entered with a basin of water and set it at her feet. He straightened but made no move to leave, not that she truly wanted him to go. But she felt somewhat unnerved by his clear intent to remain, and so close, though she supposed she should accustom herself to the idea and not act like such a goose, what with the marked change in their relationship. Christine bent to take the sponge and carefully wring it out. She ran the wet sponge along one arm, then the other, bringing it slowly up to her neck and along the top of one shoulder, just above her chemise.

While she bathed, he walked behind her. She heard the shuffling of items in the basket.

"Who is Faust?" he asked quietly. "Have you heard of him?"

The sponge dropped from Christine's nerveless fingers, bouncing off her lap to the floor. Her startled gaze remained fixed on the stained wall.

"I see you have."

At his dry words, she swallowed over a dryer throat. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"'Tis a simple question. _Do you_ know a man by that name?"

"No, I know no one by that name." That much was true, since the character of the opera was entirely fictional.

"Your behavior betrays you, damoiselle."

She shook her head and bent to collect the sponge, again dipping it in the water and squeezing it. "I've never met anyone with that name in my life."

"Why will you not look at me?"

She took an unsteady breath then turned her head toward him. He had exchanged the scratchy burlap for his smooth black leather mask, and beyond the sockets, his piercing eyes intently studied her face. Under the burden of her noble deceit, her lashes swept low on her cheeks to hide the guilt that surely must show.

Lying was never her forte, and omission of the truth was certainly a weak brand of whitewashed lie.

"It is most troubling, and I have given the matter a great deal of thought," he went on, his voice as alluring as a ripple of silk, but with a barely concealed edge that made her wary. "I speak in fluent Italian, having once told you I have no knowledge of the language, and you barely bat an eyelid or even question. Are you not the least bit interested to wonder how that could have been possible?"

The Phantom was a master at laying a trap with his hands, as well as with his words, one of his many former titles The Trapdoor Lover. Christine vocally felt her way around the unsettling discussion, leery of falling into his snare.

"Of course I'm interested. That was truly amazing. I thought perhaps it was a memory you'd forgotten that came back."

"That I, raised as a wildling in the forest of Brittany, should understand and speak the language of Italy...?"

She shrugged slightly at his sardonic words, not sure what reply to give that could be considered safe.

"I whisper words in your ear to flee when I am standing at a great distance. Even so, you treat the matter as quite common, saying nothing."

She nervously cleared her throat. "I had forgotten."

"You had _forgotten_?" His scathing tone called her a liar even if he didn't use the word.

"We were running from the Vicomte's soldiers, and well, later I didn't remember to question. That really was quite remarkable how you did that." She attempted a smile that felt shaky at best. "You are indeed a man of many talents."

He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. She cringed back, not out of fear of him, but terrified that he would compel her to say something she shouldn't.

"Do I frighten you?"

She did not fail to register the trace of hurt in his tone or note his troubled expression. Something had clearly happened between this room and their time at the well…a brief spell? A memory? She looked at him intently to see if he was in pain. He held himself with ease, though anger hardened what she could see of his countenance.

" _You_ don't frighten me, no. I simply don't understand why you so often put me under some sort of, of _inquisition_ – demanding answers – and then you're never happy with those I give."

" _Inquisitio_ _n_?" He laughed without humor, his eyes like steel. "What an odd choice of word. Unless, perhaps, you feel **_blame_** for keeping something hidden from my knowledge?"

She had no wish for this to escalate into an argument, what it was fast becoming, but felt powerless how to stop the avalanche of dark emotion now that it had begun. Worse, she had no idea how to respond to his insinuation, since he was exactly correct in his appraisal.

"Let us put aside for the moment your uncanny ability to **_ignore_** and **_forget_** the emergence of bizarre skills that have no explanation – those upon which I **_cannot cease_** to reflect with curious wonder and horror ..."

He began to pace from wall to wall in the cramped area. Christine clasped the damp sponge tightly in her lap and held her breath.

"Since our escape from the cathedral I have been having flashes of memories, _visions_ I cannot explain. Events that transpired in places I have never been. People I have seen and do not or should not know from the past…"

He swung his gaze in her direction.

Christine's heart dropped then raced at the silent _YOU_ he did not utter but spoke with his eyes. Before he could give voice to the word, she hurriedly spoke -

"You shouldn't dwell on things that only bring torment and confusion."

"Why would I not?" he incredulously rejected her helpful persuasion. "I, for one, wish to know the past that has eluded me!"

"It cannot be healthy for you."

"Healthy?"

She sought in her mind for the medieval equivalent of the word.

"In your best interest. Hale and fit – what is helpful for you to manage, in mind and in body. What if..." Christine nervously wet her lower lip with her tongue. " _What if it leads to another black spell?_ "

His eyes glittered with scorned anger at her near whisper. "So you see me not only as a monster to be feared, but some pathetic fool you must _**mollycoddle** _ and protect _?"_

She winced as he disdainfully threw back her word at her.

 _"I_ _ **never**_ have seen you as a monster - or a fool!"

 _"You LIE,_ _Madame!_ It is written on your face and in those eloquent eyes that hold so many unspoken secrets. I asked only for _THE **TRUTH**_ between us. Yet you cannot grant me even that. _"_

He stormed around the cot and to the door, his hand grabbing the knob.

Desperate to stop him from leaving, Christine jumped to her feet -

" _I love you..._ "

Neither of them moved once her soft, strangled words rang through the air.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Awww…. (About time, Chrissy!) - Next chapter will have what some of you have been begging for. ;-)**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Tormenting? Moi? nahhh ;-) ...that said, this chapter deserves the rating with a capital M...And now, taking up where we left off…**

* * *

 **XX**

.

The Phantom stood motionless, his hand resting on the knob he had yet to turn.

"You _love_ me," he said at last.

It was not a question, though his words came quiet and uncertain.

"Yes," she whispered, silently begging him to turn around, to look at her and accept the truth she had been so fearful to give him – in this century, and in the one to which they belonged.

"I know it wasn't for love that you married me," she began carefully, "and for that cause I hesitated to speak. But the other day you spoke of a deep connection of the soul between us, and after hearing you say those words, I can no longer bear to remain silent. I would have spoken then, only we were interrupted and had to flee. But yes, Maestro, it is _the **truth**_ of what I feel for you and so much more than simple affection."

He shook his head a little as though confused. "But what is it?"

 _What **is** it?_

"To love?" she asked in puzzlement.

He turned to her at last, his eyes riveting. Despite her wish fulfilled, she had to struggle not to look away, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"I have had little chance to experience the emotion," he explained simply, " _any_ emotion that does not involve suffering, hatred, or revenge. I have heard of the sentiment wittily sung in the ballads of minstrels and have read flowery verse describing it in the poetry of the bards. But never have I discerned its true meaning."

A rush of hot tears pricked her eyes to hear his wistful admission, reminding her again of all he had suffered since childhood. He spoke as Le Masque, all that he mistakenly remembered, but she knew that her Angel's personal history in another century mirrored his low words.

"I was once also confused about love," she said just as quietly. "What it meant. I didn't understand…then."

She thought of those final despairing days at the opera and the raw emptiness she had endured to lose the one being she always assumed would be there.

"Now I know."

She sank back down to the bed, never taking her eyes off him.

"It is the vital need to be with someone when you're apart," she went on. "And when you're at last together, it is the fulfillment of everything imagined. Dreams shared, unspoken feelings expressed, and a warmth deeply felt… _here_ …"

She pressed her hand to her heart, which leapt then pounded as he began slowly to walk toward her.

"It is acceptance of both the good and bad…," she went on, a little breathless by the intent manner in which he stared, his gaze focused but soft. "…without positive assurance of change, yet never losing hope for the best or ceasing to encourage. It is commitment and care and sacrifice – willing to give all to the one who has become more important than life itself…and who is so much more important than music or any need to perform…"

Her last words trailed off in a faint whisper as he sank to the bed beside her, facing her, his every movement deliberate.

"Then, Christine, with all you have spoken," he replied softly, his hand stretching forth to touch his fingertips to her cheek. "this _love,_ I feel for you…"

Her lips parted in blissful surprise to hear him speak the cherished words, a coveted sentiment she thought never again to hear after that tragic night, especially after knowing him as Le Masque. His eyes lowered to her mouth, followed by his lips, which met hers in the gentlest of kisses. She gave a little sob of joy, bringing her arms up around his neck.

"Forgive me for having doubted you," he whispered against her jaw, "Until you came into my life, distrust was all I have ever known."

She nodded faintly to grant a forgiveness she felt unwarranted, her own soul clouded with remorse not to tell him the rest of what she withheld – the truth of his identity. The powerful need to hold him, to be truly _loved_ by him and to love in return as a pledge to their tender avowals spoken, eclipsed any present guilt.

His lips found her neck, warm and damp, gently suckling skin, while his fingers trailed up her leg, taking the hem of her undergown up her thigh inch by slow, torturous inch. His hand clasped the naked curve of her hip as he brought her back with him to the bed. Before she lay fully on her back, she crossed her arms before her, grasping the bottom of her chemise with the fervent desire to be rid of it, desperate to feel his touch on every part of her flesh, her brief dip into the pool of modesty a foolish thing of the past. Readily he aided in her wish, pulling the muslin over her head and throwing it aside, his glowing eyes taking a moment to appreciate what he'd uncovered.

It wasn't enough, and her feverish hands went to his tunic to rid him of it, grateful when he helped her with that as well. Her fingers dropped to the waistband of his linen hose, but he captured her hands and pulled them up above her head, stretching his full length over her.

Fiery waves of desire pulsed through her blood to feel his solid maleness defined so strongly against her soft belly, to feel the pert tips of her breasts feather against the soft hair and warmth of his chest as he moved against her.

"Christine, Christine…" he crooned, almost as a song. "'Unspoken feelings expressed, everything imagined' - permit me to give you an abundance of pleasure, such as you have never known…"

Breathless by his words and actions, she could only nod. Their encounters of intimacy thus far had been rich and satisfying and she could not imagine what more he alluded to…

His callused fingertips grazed her nipples, creating sparks that ignited along the surface of her flesh, the flat of his hand then sliding low to her belly and beyond. Christine arched her spine in delight, her head pressing back in the mattress as his lips traced where his fingers previously traveled. The nips of his teeth and licks of his tongue came teasingly light, as light as his fingertips that traced the tingling skin of her inner thigh – and she clutched the cloak-coverlet with a groan of hungry protest, arching further toward him in appeal, needing him to ravish her and hold nothing back until she was mindless with want.

His warm mouth fastened more firmly to her breast, the sensations he evoked a continuous shower of pleasure that settled deep within. She felt weighted, drugged, the sweet, familiar heaviness burning low to the core of her. Needing to touch him, she slid her hands along his shoulders to the back of his head, pulling loose the ribbon that contained his hair, while avoiding the leather strings that fastened the mask. Her fingers slid through the fine, silken strands as his mouth roamed her body where his touch had been, his lips and tongue spreading damp flame in twisting, erratic paths. Her eyes opened wide to feel those stirring lips again whisper over her most secret curls as they had after their first night of intimacy, at the same time his hands nudged her open completely to him.

Christine held her breaths that came faster, both anxiously timid and darkly eager, her heart fluttering madly within her breast.

Surely, he wouldn't…

" _Maestro!"_

Her cry came sudden and swift as his lips burned her most sensitive flesh, his wet, wicked tongue tracing her innermost depths to learn its hidden contours.

The Phantom had never heard such a low, feral cry emit from his bride's angelic throat. Satisfied to bestow on her such intimate pleasures, he smiled, burrowing deeper into the honeyed ambrosia that was Christine.

He teased and tasted the soft flesh drenched with her desire while she writhed in blissful anguish, panting and softly crying out, again and again, the strange name of Maestro she had given him. His hands held her hips as gently he suckled the delicate skin just as he had the smooth skin of her neck, his own breaths heavy with passion to be one with her. A tremor swept through her body, ending in an intense shudder as she drew rapid bursts of breath.

He wiped her cream from his lips and moved up from her silken thighs, rapidly shedding the last barrier of clothing between them and moving to cover her supple form with his hard body.

"Wait," she panted, her glazed night-dark eyes meeting his as she pressed her hand to his chest.

With his arms braced on either side of her head, he hesitated in question.

Already flushed, her face grew rosier. "I…" Her gaze dropped low, down the length of his form. "I want to touch you."

With much of his skin pressed flush to her silken body, her soft request, strangely both daring and shy, left no doubt in mind what she asked…and the thought of it made his heart pound harder. He held her imploring eyes a moment longer then slowly rolled to his side in the scant space allotted on the narrow cot.

She pushed herself up, her avid gaze traveling over his form, her fingertips showing no hesitation to trace the skin where her eyes touched. Until now she had not looked quite so boldly at his nakedness, or the blessed darkness had been his shield, and he worked to quench the unease that threatened to unsettle him to observe her reaction to what the lamplight revealed. She had done the same for him at his request, allowing her nakedness to be scrutinized in the light. But she was lush perfection and he was far from a pleasure to the eyes. The deep marks from lashes of the whip on his back she had surely felt, but there were other scars scattered in random design over his body. Nature sculpted his face, in her perverse fashion; men marked the rest of him in blood, feeding their fears and cruelty.

Christine's fingers trickled fire down his chest to the length of a white scar made by a knife wound along his ribs, her soft touch making it difficult to breathe. Her brows gathered in dismay by what she'd found.

"It is common for a rebel leader to wear numerous badges of war," he said, his voice a light rasp. He had no wish for her pity, and certainly not in this moment.

He reached to cup her waist at the same time her hand brushed lower.

"Chriss- _stine…"_ Her name ended on a hiss as her soft palm smoothed past his hip, her fingertips dipping to brush along the throbbing length of him.

"This part of you is so very alive," she whispered in awe and blushed. To his consternation, his face also warmed by her curious words.

"Only for you, ma damoiselle…only you…"

Her curious touch was a sweet gentle flame, and hungry to feel its full extent, he covered her hand with his own, wrapping her fingers around his thickness to show her what gave him pleasure. Already eager to join with his wife and sink into her snug, creamy warmth, he felt uncertain how much longer he could withstand her slow strokes, which grew more firm and sure as her confidence escalated. The touch of her soft hand against his shaft was nearly beyond his control to manage.

Avidly Christine entered into this new discovery of her husband, repeatedly looking to their clasped hands and to his face, seeking a hint to his response and his expression that the mask so frustratingly hid. His breath came in soft pants between slightly parted lips, his eyes sliding closed as his head fell back against his shoulder.

He was so very warm against her hand, hot even, hard like steel but soft as silk, and she felt little pulsations tickle against her palm and fingers. This part of his anatomy throbbed with need, and as she had so brashly stated – felt so incredibly alive. It stirred something deep within the pit of her belly, to recall how incredible he felt there, and her curiosity piqued, she lowered her head and delivered a soft kiss to the tip of him, her tongue then slipping out to taste…

He let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and quite suddenly Christine felt her shoulders grabbed and found herself lying flat on her back.

" _I will have you now,_ " he rasped.

" _Yes_ ," she breathed, sliding her hands around his narrow hips and dropping them to his taut backside as he pulled her thigh up against his side. Their eyes held fast as he drove in deep, the sensation of heat and wet and fullness causing them both to moan in hungered satisfaction.

Words were lost to them, the message of shared love in all its raw beauty reflected in their eyes that never once broke contact. His strokes came steady and intense, holding within her for wondrous moments that stole all breath, before pulling back, slowly to fill her again.

They moved in an ageless dance, performed throughout all the centuries since time began, an exclusive duet of sensual bliss, which they carried out long into the night.

xXx

The day dawned much too swiftly for having had so little slumber, the noise outside attesting to the villagers' morning activities. Yet exhaustion could not prevent a dreamy smile from tilting Christine's lips when she thought about the delights that had saturated the night. She nestled close in the warmth of her lover's arms on the narrow cot in the inn's cramped room, with only his cloak to cover them…and felt like the wealthiest and most fortunate woman alive. Noting he still slept soundly, she also allowed herself to slip back into the realm of dreams...

Little more than a fortnight ago, she thought she would never see him again, would never touch or hold him, never again be given the opportunity to tell him of her deepest feelings, once carried in shame - even hidden from herself - but now nurtured in her heart. She had thought him dead, forever lost to her, and though she still did not understand exactly how their being here had come to pass, or why, she was grateful for this second chance to make a life with her Maestro.

They had shared their love in word and in deed, many times over, and slept content in each other's arms. It still seemed a dream that Erik, as both the Phantom of the Opera _and_ the Phantom of the Forest, loved her. No matter which entity he inhabited, she would always adore him. And she hoped one day to receive his trust in the knowledge that she would never reject him if he wore no mask in her presence. She had made two grievous and foolish mistakes to strip him of the protective covering in their century, thankful he bore no memory of either time and they could truly start their lives afresh.

Christine thought of these things as she stood near the stable, waiting for her husband to finish his business with the workman inside. She had no desire to enter the premises again, the terrible heat from the forge suffocating even with one wall absent as a doorway to to the outside, and gladly she waited in the brisk morning air in the spot where Erik told her to remain, and where she had stood for the last several minutes.

A glance toward the well provoked her thirst. Noting it was within visual distance, the temptation proved too great. Besides, she reasoned, they would need water for their journey.

Telling herself she would keep an eye out for Erik's exit from the stables, Christine strode to the well, looking through the large basket for some kind of container. There was no cup, the plate she had used for coins was of course too shallow, and his flask was missing as well.

A dipper full of water suddenly appeared in her line of vision, and she followed the bony arm up to its bearer. The old woman with the bright eyes and straggled silver hair from yesterday again offered her use of her utensil. Her eyes were so pale a blue, they were almost iridescent, like crystal…

"Merci…" Christine nodded her thanks. She took a lengthy swallow then returned the dipper.

"Your voice is quite lovely," the woman said. "I watched you yesterday, here at the well."

Christine smiled. "I am pleased that you took enjoyment from my song. I imagine it's not something you're accustomed to. The music is…very different where I come from."

The woman nodded slowly, her ancient and remarkable eyes suddenly quite grave.

"I have no coin to give, but in return I leave you with this warning, child: steer clear of the road to Brittany. Do not travel the way you came, lest it lead to your despair."

The old woman's sudden switch in behavior from gracious to ominous startled Christine, robbing her of an immediate reply. She blinked, trying to collect her staggered thoughts.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. " _What_ _despair_?"

The woman's glassy eyes moved beyond her. "Your man approaches."

"I…"

Christine turned in confusion, grateful to see Erik walk her way, but concerned anew to see that the portion of his face not covered by the burlap looked thunderous.

She offered an apology in the form of an explanation once he drew near. "I thought to collect some water." Reminded of the strange old woman, she turned back to her, to insist on knowing what she meant by her portentous words and to repeat them for Erik to hear.

Christine blinked in astonishment.

The woman was nowhere to be seen, the buildings too distant for her to have disappeared into any of them that quickly, unless she traveled at the speed of light. Like on the first occasion they met, she seemed to have completely vanished.

"Did you see her?" she turned to Erik, silently pleading with her eyes for him to tell her she wasn't losing her mind.

"See who?" He looked beyond her then back in question.

"The old woman. She was right here only moments ago."

"I confess, my mind dwelt on other matters and I paid scant attention."

"But - you _must_ have seen her – she was the only one here! With me. At the well…"

His one eye that she could see narrowed. Splendid. He already presumed her mental faculties to be lacking for her belief that she came from another era. Now he would think she was imagining ghosts that weren't really there.

"I swear she was here," she insisted. "She gave me a warning –"

"A warning?" His jaw tightened. "Did she _threaten_ you?"

"No, it was nothing like that. It seemed that she was only trying to be helpful. I just don't understand where she left to so quickly, and why…"

Perhaps the old woman had also been snatched up and delivered to another time, though no standing stones stood near…Certainly she could not have vanished into thin air, though in retrospect, Christine pondered why such a bizarre anomaly would shock her. Witchcraft, though punished severely in this era, did seem to be utilized in Brittany and the nearby regions. Erik's account of his youth as Le Masque and the hag who raised him proved that.

"Do you think she was a witch?"

"A witch?" He scowled. "What exactly did she say, Christine?"

"She warned us not to take the road back to Brittany – she said it would lead to our despair. Those were her words exactly." Another thought occurred to her. "How could she have known we were from Brittany? I didn't tell anyone – did you?"

She realized the absurd foolishness of such a question directed to her Phantom, who maintained a cloak of secrecy in both lives lived.

"Mayhap it was an assumption made on her part," he mulled, looking beyond Christine then back again. "There are very few townships near Paris. Yet the advice is wise. The Vicomte could easily have laid traps, hoping to catch us unaware."

"How then will we return to Brittany if not by the road we came?"

"We shall take a roundabout route. Do not concern yourself, ma damoiselle. I know the secrets of the forest well."

She had cause to disbelieve such a claim, given that he rarely must have left the Opera House in the decades he inhabited it – and then likely, his treks only led into the surrounding city. But he had proven himself adept in the wilds, seeming to believe he had grown up in this forest, so she trusted that they wouldn't lose their way. And if they did…what of it? She was in no hurry to return to the camp of his brigands, all of them suspicious of her presence, save for Tobias.

As she and Erik spoke, three women drew near the well. Christine sensed her husband's discomfort though she made no mention of it, and noticed the strangers' avid curiosity toward Erik though she also paid them no heed.

"My flask is empty of spirits – you may use that." He pulled the leather container from within his cloak and the sash tied around his tunic.

His terse words prodded her to speak. "Are you still angry with me?"

The lines of tension that had sharply etched his mouth gentled into astonishment. "What cause would I have to be angry with you?"

"You look upset and have, ever since you left the stables."

He sighed. "It is nothing that need trouble you." He brushed off whatever incident irritated him so strongly. "Go collect your water so that we can leave this wretched place."

Christine gave him a puzzled look but did as he directed, moving toward the giggling young women that had gathered there.

The Phantom stepped back, ill at ease with their attention focused solely on him, and wished for a forest of shielding trees in which to lose himself.

He could not be sure their laughter was aimed at him, though it seemed it so, since the intrusive trio repeatedly glanced his way. Their light simpering increased his ire and brought to mind thoughts of mocking taunts and a beast's cage -

Different from what the old hag once locked him into. Large enough to house a bear, with bars of iron and a floor of dirt strewn with hay…

 _Where the devil had that come from?!_

Spinning on his heel, trying to escape both the uncomfortable setting and his contradictory thoughts, the Phantom set a quick pace toward their newly acquired horse waiting nearby.

The unexpected change of a detour would give him the opportunity needed for a second unplanned destination. One he had considered visiting for days - a dark place, dangerous but vital to his plan, where he hoped to find answers and clear away some of the mystical confusion that clouded his mind.

If all proceeded well, they should reach that tract of land by nightfall of the following day...

And then, at long last, he might understand.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: Muahahaha... ;-)**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Thank you so much for the latest reviews! :) It's fun to see where you guys are with this and what you think will happen. (chapter deserves the rating)  
**

 **And now…**

* * *

 **XXI**

 _"Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, dear Angel…"_

 _Christine bowed her head of messy curls and nervously giggled at her audacity to summon so magnificent a creature. Of course, it was all in play. A game of pretend. Kneeling in the chapel alone, with no one nearby to hear her impertinent and bold request, she felt it safe to indulge in these little fantasies - for fantasies were all they could ever be - that she a simple child could have a mighty angel heed her call and bend to her wishes!_

 _He would never arrive at dusk to greet her. Since the first time she heard his deep, beautiful voice in this sacred chamber, he had visited only after the dawn, before morning practice began. And she had tumbled out of bed early to meet with him, barely going through the dreadful chore of running a brush through her tangles of hair, once again messy after the day's practice._

 _"What a lovely voice you have_ _ _…_ "_

 _At the soft flow of words announcing his unexpected presence, Christine gave a little yelp and nearly fell over. She jumped to her feet then thought better of that and dropped back down to her trembling knees, pressing her hands together beneath her chin in prayerful obeisance._

 _"Angel," she whispered, her eyes flickering to the presence of the painted one upon the wall, then quickly back down to the flagstones. "Forgive me. I didn't know you were there."_

 _"Do you fear me, timid child?" There was something infinitely sad about his quiet words. "I would never wish harm to come to you. I wish only to protect you._ _"_

 _This brought a tremulous smile, and she lifted her face in relief that he wasn't upset. In the three months since he first came to her, his weekly visits turning into daily ones after the second month, he told her wondrous stories or sang to her with his beautiful voice. He treated her as if she was special, as Papa once did._

 _No, she did not truly fear the Angel – only the omniscient and invisible being that he was._

 _It was that truth that at last gave her the courage to speak._

 _"Angel, may I ever see your face?"_

 _A long silence elapsed, and she worried that she had angered him with her daring question or her earlier show of weakness, and he had left. She trembled at the thought, then heard his long drawn-out sigh._

 _"No, my child. My countenance would only frighten you. In all historical accounts of the holy book by which your father raised you to believe, did not all such encounters between the heavenly host and mere mortals start with the salutation - 'Be ye not afraid'?"_

 _Christine did not understand some of what the Angel said, he spoke with such grand words, but she nodded anyhow._

 _"_ _Is it still your desire to sing?_ _I am here today to grant that for which you have asked."_

 _Her disappointment at his refusal to see him disappeared in the glorious light of his admission. She had asked twice for him to teach her, in the first two weeks of their meeting, but he never gave the answer she craved. After that, she kept her silence, fearing he would think her insolent and unworthy if she persisted. Now she gasped in delight, her eyes going round in surprise._

 _"Oh yes, Angel! It is all I ever wanted. To sing and have you teach me. Will you really teach me…?"_

 _"I have said it."_

 _After Papa's death, Christine thought she could never know happiness again, but in her splendid Angel's presence, the dark sorrow had begun to fade and she felt hope._

 _"Will you do all that I ask of you to accomplish this – to sing_ _ _–_ so that one day you might take the stage as a star performer?"_

 _The very idea of being in La Carlotta's place seemed as farfetched as the clouds in the sky or those painted inside the dome of the theater. But if her Angel of Music said it would come to pass, she believed it to be so._

 _"I will always obey you, Angel. I swear it."_

 _"Then stand to your feet, dear child, and listen…"_

 _The soothing strains of a violin seemed to come from beyond the wall before her, and she rose slowly to her feet, closing her eyes in rapture to the sound…_

"Christine!"

Abruptly jolted from her sweet reverie, Christine blinked. She turned her full attention to the tall masked man, once a mysterious Angel, who now walked beside her and led their recent acquirement of a horse by its tether.

The startled look in her former Maestro's eyes unnerved her, and she wondered what new infraction she had committed. All morning long his manner had been dour and distant and feeling absent of his company, Christine had slipped into ruminating about the past, into those moments worthy of remembrance.

"That song," he whispered. "From whence does it come?"

"Song?" She nervously pulled her lower lip between her teeth, not realizing her reminisces had manifested into their present reality. "I didn't realize I was singing."

"You were humming a tune I have heard before."

"Oh." After their highly emotive argument at the inn, and his hurt anger with her evasion of his questions, Christine knew better than to completely avoid speaking of their past, though she sought to be careful with what she revealed. "I was thinking of my childhood and the first occasion I heard that song. I'm sure it has been around for many, _many_ years, so it doesn't come as a surprise that you would recognize it."

The necessary deceit threatened to burn her tongue to cinders. She hated to mislead him but could not tell him that as a child of seven, she composed one line of a song in her make-believe game of growing closer to an Angel – a line he later developed into a full aria, which he then sung to her and she to him, as she drew close to where he stood behind a mirror door on the night she entered his candlelit world. No, she could not tell him that.

He studied her a moment yet did not question further.

She decided it prudent to change the subject before he could delve further into the mystery of the melody regarding an Angel of Music.

"Can you tell me now, what had you so upset in the village?" she asked.

Beneath the mask his jaw tensed, but he gave a curt nod.

"I wish for nothing to stand between us," he said, increasing her shame for not offering him the same deserved courtesy. Her self-inflicted argument that she refrained from the full truth for _his_ well-being did little to assuage the guilt.

"The imbecile would not at first turn the horse over to me," Erik explained acerbically. "He did not believe the merchant sold it into my possession. And then the fool was without the skill to read what I shoved at his face with regard to the bill of sale." He barked out a short laugh. "I had to …persuade him that all was in order and he would not be punished for aiding in thievery." He shook his head in bitter remembrance. "He soon realized that my brand of punishment would be far less desirable than anything the insipid merchant could deliver."

Christine well remembered his merciless brand of intimidation to those who defied him at the Opera House and could not repress a little shudder.

He looked her way. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for the advice to create a written agreement."

She frowned. "It doesn't sound as if it did the good I had hoped it would. For that I am sorry."

"On the contrary, without the paper I likely would not have gotten as far as I did in my persuasions to yield." He glanced her way again, a pensive look in his eye. "I do find it odd that you know of such business matters."

Hurriedly she looked to the path before them, afraid he might see in her eyes more than she wished. "I spent a lifetime at the opera house and saw many things in my years there. But Maestro, I don't wish to speak of that right now…"

"You have another topic you wish to discuss?"

"Yes," she said somewhat anxiously. "We will be returning to your campsite soon, and, well, save for Tobias, your men don't like me. They think I'm a witch."

He scoffed. "Do not be concerned with what those fools think."

"I'm not, not really..."

She hesitated with what she so desperately wanted to say. They had just vowed their love to one another scant hours ago; it was certainly too early to ask him to leave his churlish men, most of whom were clearly unappreciative of their leader, and come away to find and build a life with her. Save for the suspicious blacksmith, those in the village had treated them with a measure of kindness. Perhaps they could find another small village and start anew there. All this she thought, but dared not voice…not yet.

She felt his hand suddenly slip into hers, and was warmed by his touch, in heart and body.

"Be not afraid, Christine. I will never cease to protect you, but while within the camp you must always do as I say. Will you abide by my words and not test them?"

Her lips twitched at the similarity of her Angel's inquiry from that long-ago day in the chapel.

"So, outside of camp I may have the freedom to do as I will?"

His brow lifted at her sudden teasing manner, and his lips twisted in a wary half smile.

"And what is it that you will, ma damoiselle?"

Their change in status made her bold.

"To start with - this."

Slipping her other hand over his that still clutched her own, she swept nearer and, lifting herself on her toes, brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth.

He stood immobile, his stunned reaction confusing to her after the absolute intimacy they had shared - before a mask inexplicably dropped over his eyes. This one invisible, but somehow creating more of a shield to hide behind than the covering he had again exchanged for the customary black leather.

"Maestro…?" she asked worriedly.

He squeezed her hand, keeping it clasped firmly in his, that act alone reassuring her he was not unduly upset. At least not with her. His moods could be mercurial, and though she wished to know why her token of affection had brought about such a change in his behavior, she felt it wise not to insist on an answer until he was ready to speak.

They walked a short distance, a soft wind blowing the damp tendrils of hair from her face. The conical tops of the trees, so high to the heavens she had to crane to see them, gently rustled and swayed. The forest was serene, bathed in its green darkness, the sun hidden behind the many boughs.

"Do you miss it?" he suddenly asked. "Your life before this?"

"Sometimes," she said carefully, thinking of all they had been to each other and the music they had shared. Those moments she missed terribly. "But it's foolish to dwell on what can never be changed…" She searched her mind for how to express herself without giving too much away.

"Because you are trapped here, _with me_ ," he finished for her, his words clipped and full of resignation.

She came to a halt and faced him. He also stopped walking and regarded her curiously.

Her heart full, Christine barely remembered to curb his name from her tongue.

"I meant every word I spoke last night. After the close moments we so recently shared, how could you think otherwise?" She felt her face flame a little with her reference to their lovemaking and shook her head in gentle frustration. "I love _you,_ Maestro. And if I feel trapped by anything, it is this strange century in which I find myself, not the man with whom I share it."

The faintest of smiles lifted his lips, and he brushed her cheek with his fingers.

"I shall endeavor to hold that truth in my memory, though it is unfortunate I cannot promise it will remain."

At his quiet almost apologetic words, she gave him a sympathetic smile. "Then I will be sure to remind you every day."

Unable to help herself, she again moved forward, this time to press a kiss to his lips in promise. This time he did not flinch or grow distant, and she was greatly encouraged by his tender smile.

The remainder of their day progressed with ease now that those greater troubles that beset them had been aired and managed. In the afternoon, they rested by a still small pond that shone like a mirror and ate the meat pies Erik procured before leaving the village. Afterward, they continued their journey until the sun had nearly disappeared and the sky through the trees became a wash of muted violets, rose, and gold. It was then that he declared they would rest for the night.

Minutes later, armed against the encroaching darkness with the steadily burning lantern, Christine wearily sat down with her back against the trunk of a tree and waited while Erik ventured into the darkness to gather wood for a fire.

Footsteps crackled in the forest path, waking her just as she'd just nodded off, and she jumped a little in shock. She was surprised to see her husband return to stand before her, his arms empty of wood.

"Come, Christine." He held out his hand.

"Has something happened?" She shook her head to clear it into wakefulness, when a dreadful thought struck. "Have they found us? The Vicomte and his men...?"

"No, ma belle, we are safe. I have discovered a better location for our slumber. Come…"

Her fears assuaged, she could not help wonder about the secretive smile he gave and swore she could detect a twinkle in his eyes before he averted them.

With his aid, she rose to her feet. He kept her hand in his large one and picked up the lantern, leading her through the area from which he had just emerged. A short walk later, they broke through the heavy cover of evergreens, and Christine gasped at the sight, bringing her other hand up to clutch his arm in delighted surprise.

They had come to a grassy cliff devoid of trees and bushes. There, all around, softly blinked hundreds upon hundreds of tiny golden lights, glowing with a gentle luminescence that lit up the dark night sky.

"Oh, my…" she whispered in wonder.

 **x**

Satisfied by her bedazzled response to his simple offering, the Phantom watched his enchanted bride as she stared at the multitude of fireflies, some of them so close she could reach out and touch them, if she so willed.

"Do you believe in the faeries?" she inquired with the same reverence she had used before. "That they exist...?"

He studied her where she stood, the wild tumble of her dark ringlets cascading down her back while golden beams showered highlights of the same incandescent gold upon her cloak and in her hair. She resembled a beautiful faerie with the countless dancing lights gracefully swirling around and above her, causing her to sparkle as the night sky did.

"It is alleged that in his youth my grandfather captured one, to become his captive for nigh unto a year."

"But you don't believe?" She looked over her shoulder at him.

He spread out a pelt over the grass then beckoned her to sit down with a slight curl of two fingers. She hesitated a moment before obeying his silent command.

"Sit with me?" she looked up at him, her dark eyes glistening with hope.

Pleased by her request, he lowered himself down beside her, deciding his task to gather kindling for a fire could wait a little longer.

"I have never seen one to know," he said offhandedly. "My parents certainly must have believed in the Fae, to sacrifice me at the standing stones, in the hope of the return for what they presumed to be their perfect stolen child."

Despite his desire to remain aloof and untouched by emotion, the acidic bitterness washed up into his words.

She shifted closer, so that they sat hip to hip, and slipped her hand into his where it rested on his thigh. He was grateful for her nearness, which warmed him within and without.

They watched the performance of minuscule golden lights, and Christine rested her head against his shoulder. The Phantom switched hands to hold with hers, so as to wrap one arm around her back and draw her even closer until she almost half lay in his lap.

He marveled at how intensely his feelings were wrapped up in this woman, whom he had known barely a fortnight. His damsel, his wife...his _Angel_. He inhaled a swift breath at how suitable the endearment felt for her, how...familiar?

Perhaps because she had spoken of her Angel of Music, the moniker came with ease. He frowned to think of such a vindictive creature, it seeming a sacrilege to bestow upon his pure bride the odious cur's blandishment, which suited that devil not at all. The Phantom was no saint, far from it, but to put his gentle damsel through such anguish as he had discerned within her stilted words of her time spent with _Erik_ was certainly a crime. He had no desire either to share the name of such a fiend, a great reason why he forbade her to call him by it. Nor did he want her to think of that dark "Angel" when she lay within the Phantom's arms.

With a wince, he remembered how in his jealous doubt he had snapped at her over the malevolent fool, and very nearly brought her to tears. And earlier, when she so unexpectedly tendered a kiss, his indifferent reaction long used as a defense had clearly hurt her. It was a poor excuse, but the Phantom was unaccustomed to any woman showing him affection, love, or understanding to know how to respond - and this rare beauty who now belonged to him unconditionally had granted him all three.

"Christine, ma damoiselle," he whispered, suddenly giving vent to his thoughts and putting them into words. "I am not a patient man, but never do I wish to treat you with anything but the adoration you deserve. I shall endeavor to keep that vow always, even as you hide your secrets, which are so prevalent in your expressive dark eyes. One day it is my hope that you will share them with me…"

He thought about that, thought about the many narrow escapes they had undergone and her compassion and companionship toward him that never wavered but always remained stable and true. Even after having seen his face during his dark duress, when he remained wretchedly unaware, even then she later accepted him into her magnificent body and awarded him her full trust. And so he decided to share with her a truth that remained a paradox, a trouble and a comfort.

She _was_ his wife, but not the only one to keep secrets.

"Since you came into my life, it has changed in ways I fail to understand. These foul lapses of memory never once involve time spent with you. I recall every moment of every day we have spent together implicitly, and sense that I always will, though my life prior to the night you stumbled into my camp lies buried within a fog."

His arm tightened around her as he gathered the courage to say what he must.

" _You_ are the woman from my dreams during the dark spells, the woman who taunts me to follow but then flees. Who stares at me so woefully, with tears and regrets and a strange hope that brands my soul and gives me both relief and despair – but how can this be when I have never before known you?"

The question was rhetorical, and he shook his head in disgust with his failings to understand and went on without awaiting her reply. Never had he been so open with anyone in his entire existence, but there were scant few of his association deserving of his time.

"I do not believe you to be a witch, as you so often fear, but I know they exist and have long contemplated if I might be under some unnatural spell of black magic. Cursed as my face is cursed. And yet, perhaps this most recent and desirable change involving you is by virtue of the love I have recently discovered, now that I better understand its meaning – could this retention of our days shared be a natural cause of such love...? Christine...?"

When she failed to respond, he inclined his head to better see her face.

Her lashes fanned her cheeks, her breathing soft and even in exhausted slumber. A trifle disappointed that she'd heard not a word of his heartfelt declaration, the Phantom lifted his hand to stroke her jaw with his fingertips.

"Sleep well, Mon Ange..."

Upon hearing the chosen and discarded name slip from his tongue, he grudgingly realized the endearment was perfect for the angelic woman in his arms. Indeed, he could think of none other to describe her half as well.

So too came the unexpected urge to hum to her while she slept. Strange, when he had never before sung a note until knowing her and heeding her pleas to sing…

 **xXx**

Deep within the realm of sleep, Christine smiled to hear her Angel's transcendent voice which barely brought her to the surface, only to be gently immersed once more into dreamless slumber…

When again she came to slow awareness, it was to the most stirring of experiences, wondrous ones she had felt before, performed by her husband.

His lips ghosted across her temple to her cheek and jaw, barely brushing against her lips, while his warm fingers glided back and forth beneath her ruched up gown and between her thighs he must have pushed apart.

Her lashes fluttered open as she drew in a soft, staggered breath. A small fire burned nearby, illuminating his masked face and his eyes that glowed like twin blue flames.

She opened her mouth to question but before she could think what to ask, he placed one finger to his parted lips, his other hand never ceasing to stroke her needy skin. Prickles of chills raced along her rapidly heating flesh at the memory of how he had made the same gesture for silence in the Don Juan. As they did then, his eyes burned with all of what he wished to do to her…was now doing with practiced skill.

Then she did not fully understand; now she understood so well...

He dipped one long finger then two inside, stroking deeply, his thumb moving to the tiny bud of flesh bound up with a mass of riveting sensation and rubbing her in the manner that gave such infinite pleasure. Her gasps became soft moans and her lashes fluttered closed again as she came entirely awake.

The Phantom watched, never taking his intent eyes from her face, the cream of her desire drenching his skin as for a pleasurable span of time she gracefully writhed beneath his tender caresses. Her face grew flushed in passion, her sweet exhalations and quiet moans music to his ears.

She squeezed her eyes tightly, her moans elevating in pitch and sound, her wet velvet walls surrounding his fingers now clenching and releasing as her shining face relaxed into its former smooth contours. Her lips trembled, and he dipped his head to gently partake of their sweetness - but moved back when she attempted to unlace his tunic beneath the cloak he still wore.

Giving her pleasure increased his desire twofold, but he restrained from feeding his own hunger, wishing for this passionate awakening to the dawn to be for Christine's sake alone, a testament to how he adored her.

"Maestro?" she asked in confusion in the gentle, husky undertone that always appeared after they were intimate.

"This morn was for you alone, Mon Ange…"

Her eyes widened; her face seemed to pale.

"Why…" she whispered after a moment. "Why did you call me that?"

"Does it displease you?"

"No – it's not that. It's only you have never said it before, not since – _not ever_..." She pressed her lips together, stifling further words, as if afraid to say more.

"You are an angel, _my_ _Angel_ , and the name suits you well." Loath to move his hand away, one finger gently continued along its creamy trail.

A conflict of emotions swam within her mysterious dark eyes, rich desire taking precedence. In a sudden move she gripped the lapels of his cloak, bringing him back down to her.

"Make love to me," she whispered in the moment before her mouth sought his, as did her tongue in her quest for utter fulfillment. "This is what I want, my Forest Phantom. To feel you deep inside me…"

One of her hands smoothed down his shirt to the bulge pressing hard against his hose that made evident he wished for the same. She smiled a little against his lips and stroked the bold outline, as far as she could reach with the constricted position of lying on her back beneath him.

His hand left her warmth as he broke away from their kiss with a little indrawn hiss. The complaint died on her tongue when his mouth found her throat, his teeth scraping the tendon there even as he nudged her hand aside and loosed himself. She grabbed hold of his swollen manhood before he could manage, her fingers taking a moment to revel in the structure of its hot silken hardness before she placed him against her still throbbing flesh. With a swift plunge, he buried himself deep, laying absolute claim to her body.

She gasped; he groaned, and for a moment, they grew still, as close as they could lie together while exulting in the unique fulfillment of being complete. Their eyes caught and held, a wealth of unspoken emotion displayed between them by the nearby flames. Finding scant satisfaction in clutching his shirt beneath the cloak, she impatiently pulled up the back of his tunic until her hands met the preferred texture and heat of his scarred flesh.

The skies lightened from blackest ink to dusky blue, a herald to the dawn that soon rippled in misty ribbons of mauve and violet, as slowly he rocked within her. Overcome, she matched his movements, their breathing becoming more laboured with the passionate ascent of their tempo…

A rosy glow illumined the land as they found blissful release in their ardor, while the heavens above exploded in the brilliant hues of a new sunrise.

 **xXx**

With such a captivating entrance into the day, their travels, though tiring, achieved an ease formerly absent and were quite enjoyable. They conversed about myriad topics as they walked including, much to Christine's surprise, music and its composers.

In the afternoon, they rested by a shallow brook, eating a slew of ripe berries they collected during their trek. Christine took that time to freshen herself, splashing water upon her face and neck, lifting her wild mane of hair to pat the icy droplets there as well. Erik also knelt by the brook to fill his leather flask. In a burst of girlish mischief, she batted the water his way, watching as it splashed him head to cloak.

She giggled, but when he swiftly turned to look at her, his icy eyes flaring behind the mask, instantly she regretted her childish act.

"I'm sorry, Maestro," she said when the silence became unnerving. "It was only in – _FUN!_ "

The last word she squealed as a shower of water sprayed her face. She rubbed the cold droplets from her eyes, which widened as she stared. His expression remained as inanimate as his mask, and then a slow smile curled his lips.

"The brook is not deep enough to bathe, my dear, but if you require a good washing, I'll not disappoint you…"

Christine squealed and laughed, uselessly evading the continual and rapid streams of water he directed her way, her own poor attempts barely meeting their mark before she needed to run a few steps or duck again. This continued until she slipped in the damp grass, his hands instantly at her waist and breaking any impact as they fell together to the ground.

Instantly he rolled her beneath him, and she gave a little shiver.

"Are you cold, ma damoiselle?"

"I'm all wet," she complained with a pout, then blushed at the wicked gleam that lit his eyes as the atmosphere quite suddenly shifted from playful into something much more intense. Her breath caught and held as his hand slipped beneath her rumpled gown and cupped her bare womanhood. The air trapped in her lungs left in a violent rush as his wicked, wonderful finger burrowed deep within her soft folds.

"Ah, yes, so you are," he purred in his rich velvet tone. "We must remedy that at once."

Her slightly embarrassed giggle altered into a protracted gasp as he put his promise into immediate action...

It was some time before they left the grassy area by the brook, with hair and clothes damp and disheveled from their carefree amusements by the water, but both of them quite deliciously warmed from their passion play to care.

Never had Christine known such happiness than she experienced since marrying Erik. Despite being imprisoned in an ancient century full of peril and running for their very lives, she daily knew bliss. She almost laughed aloud at the incongruity of such a thing. True, life would be ideal if her husband remembered his actual identity and would reveal his hidden self to her, without the mask, no longer putting up barriers between them. Nonetheless, her heart was light, and the birdsong in the trees serenaded her with lilting music, befitting of her mood.

Afternoon drifted into early evening, the skies taking on an opalescent sheen as the sun hid behind a thick cloud bank. They broke through the forest of thick trees, and just like that, Christine's blithe mood evaporated as she felt the first stirring of dread.

"Why have you brought me here?" she whispered in horrified disbelief, swiftly turning from the unwelcome sight before them to seek the answer in his eyes.

He stared straight ahead, avoiding her anxious gaze.

She put an insistent hand to his arm.

"Maestro! Please, tell me… _why?"_

Her last word came out almost in a whimper, and Erik covered her hand with his own, at last turning his head to look at her. Christine desperately wished to read the emotion in his eyes that glimmered like polished steel.

"You have no need to fear," he reassured quietly. "It will be alright. Come…"

She searched his expression, vainly trying to decipher his reason. His lips were neither drawn tight in anger nor tilted upward in ease, and his eyes gave nothing away. He unfastened her tightly clenched fingers from his sleeve and kept her hand held in his.

"Come, Christine," he quietly commanded a second time.

With little choice but to follow where he led, she nervously walked with him down the grassy hill and toward the ominous circle of tall standing stones ...

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: I loved that love scene in the show Outlander on the night before Jamie took Claire to** ** **Craigh na Dun** , and since bits of my PotO tale are sort of a take/twist on that, I had to mirror the scene, in my own way. ;-)**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I love seeing where you guys are with this... and now...**

* * *

XXII

When she was a small child, Christine feared the darkness, especially once she became an orphan. She would pull the blanket up over her head at night and squeeze her eyes shut if the candle near her bedside should blow out, with no one awake to relight it for her. Somehow, the futile act of hiding beneath the woolen cover made her feel safer.

When the Phantom, in his enraged desperation, pulled her through the cellars beneath the Opera House, she feared all of what had happened and all of what would happen. Even then, in her terror, somehow she knew he would never physically harm her. Knew too that there, deep in the belly of his dismal underworld, no matter that circumstances said otherwise, he was still the master in control.

Once more he pulled her toward a fearsome outcome, the difference being that he held no power over this dark place of mystical terror…

And in this knowledge, she had never known such fear.

They approached from a direction other than the one she'd once taken, but Christine could not mistake the sight of the many weathered perpendicular stones standing so ominous before her. Cold. Austere and _dangerous_ …

The Megaliths of Carnac.

She attempted to drag her feet, to hold back, but to no avail. With firm persistence Erik pulled her with him just as he had in the cellars, his grip strong, nearly bruising. They drew closer to the stones, so close she could make out their chips and fissures…

"Stop!" she insisted. "Stop – **_please stop!_** "

Perhaps it was the tears that shook her voice that finally got through to him. He halted and turned in question, though did not release her hand.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked before he could speak. "For what purpose are we in this wretched place?"

"I told you, my dear, you have no reason to be afraid –"

"No reason?" she repeated incredulously, cutting him off. "I _told_ you what happened here. Oh, I know you don't believe me – that you think the horrid experience I went through is all in my mind – that I imagined it or some such thing. But it _did_ happen, all of it – and I have no wish to go any closer to those foul stones. No wish to be here at all."

Frowning, he released her wrist. She snapped it to her chest, clasping it with her other hand.

"Please, may we leave now?" she tried again softly. "It's not safe…"

Another, more harrowing thought occurred and she glanced back at the fringe of tall, widespread trees that thankfully shielded their presence. But for how long?

"Chateau Martinique is a short distance from these stones - if the Vicomte has returned, he might come here and find us!"

"He'll not find us."

She shook her head in frustration at his stubborn arrogance.

"How can you be so certain?"

His snort of a laugh came without amusement.

"He would never come here."

The Phantom looked toward the nearest stone. In this profane locale of ritual he had been left to die as a babe. The old hag who took him visited on the feast days she observed, forcing him to accompany her as an aide when he was a child, but never had she permitted him to draw this close, stating that he was tainted and unworthy. Since her death, once he joined forces with the motley band of criminals, on occasion he observed the stones from a distance but never felt the desire to step foot inside their formidable rows…

Not until he met Christine and heard her incredulous story of how she'd come to be in this century.

He returned his attention to his bride. Her brown eyes were large with apprehension in a face gone pallid, white as the first snow, and fear shimmered off her in waves almost tangible.

Once he'd taken the time to dwell on her astounding and self-condemning words of her presumed passage here, he did not doubt she spoke in truth, the truth she believed to be real. He had never truly questioned the possibility of any deliberate deceit on her part. That was made even more apparent by her terrified reaction in coming to this pagan site of ancient ritual. In the short time he'd known her she did not seem the type to condone deception, and he believed her innocent of all trickery.

"Stay then," he quietly ordered. "I'll not force you to go any further."

The Phantom turned from Christine and strode toward the ring of standing stones at the fringe of forest in the near distance. He was almost to its edge when he heard her swift running footsteps in the grass behind. Wildly she clutched his arm.

"You cannot mean to go in there!" she said frantically, moving in front of him as though her diminutive form would block his determined passage. "What if the stones take you away?"

"Why should they?"

The secrets once more swam deep in her eyes, and as she had many times, she pressed her lips shut as if fearful to say too much, before speaking again.

"Do you think I _planned_ for this to happen to me?" she whispered. "I had no idea the stones would rip me from my century, _but they did_ – and what they did to me they might do to you as well!"

With firm deliberation he unfastened her grip from his arm. Immediately she grabbed hold of his hand. He shook his head in impatience, just managing to keep his voice at an even cadence.

"The witch I was forced to serve believed any enchantment through the stones occurred on the feast days alone," he said. "It was when she would oft cast her spells. As this is not one of them, the stones hold no power, if what she said can be believed. I was never allowed close enough to discern the nature of that truth for myself."

Christine shook her head with piqued distress, clearly not wishing to hear any of this.

"And if she was wrong?" She brought up her other hand to clutch his one hand in both of hers, her skin like ice.

"She was a wretch who deserved hellfire, but in her practice of witchcraft she possessed a knowledge I could not challenge. It was she that gave my grandfather the means to fulfill his obsession and capture one of the Fae, did I tell you? She spoke of it often, to torment me. Only he did not pay his debt to her. And so, the curse was visited to his firstborn son – and to the firstborn of that son. Me."

"Maestro… _please_ …" she wheedled in concern.

"My father was not born deformed – but his soul was twisted and cruel. Never did he know the love of a woman. His wife despised him and tried to murder him – I would like to think she blamed him for the loss of their firstborn child. But I was told that it was she who placed me there…" he looked toward the circular tablet of stone. "…and left me to die…"

He walked toward the stone altar. This time she did not attempt to stop him. To his surprise, given her great apprehension to be there, rather than let go she kept a firm hold of his hand, clutching it with both of hers, and followed close behind.

Twice the circumference of a wagon wheel, the table of grey rock stood at waist level, three circles of strange markings inscribed upon its surface. He felt a shudder travel the length of her body as she drew nearer to him. Half of her front pressed against his back, from shoulder to hip, as if she wished to attach herself to him.

"I've seen those symbols before," she said in anxious surprise. "At the Chateau Martinique, in a tapestry that hung on the wall."

"Fire. Water. Earth. Wind," he interpreted quietly of the inner ring. "Time…"

"You can _read_ that?" Christine asked in shock. "Those strange symbols are _words_?"

He nodded. "An ancient language I found within one of the tomes the witch kept. I taught myself what I could manage – through symbols that accompanied drawings to depict their meaning. I cannot interpret the entirety of this, though some of the additional markings are familiar."

"That night…" she said as if in a dream, her words soft and distant. "There was rain and there was wind and hail struck the stones and caused sparks, like fire. An eerie blue light flashed through the sky again and again, like a bolt of lightning striking close, only darker, and then…and then I fell through time…"

Once, he would have silenced her in grave concern that she might be overheard, and kept her mute with nervous unease in the fear that she might be deranged. Now, with no one nearby, and believing her sane, he sought to know what he'd never before allowed.

"Tell me everything you remember. I wish to know all of what happened that night."

At his quiet directive, she looked at him in shock that he would ask. He nodded softly in reassurance that he meant every word. A small smile – of relief? of uncertainty? – tilted her lips, though the apprehension never left her eyes.

"I was taking a stroll on the castle grounds near sunset and came across a child sitting beneath a tree. She told me I should visit the summit to see what it held. I first declined, having no lantern. She gave me hers. And so I went."

He looked into the distance and what could be seen of the rows of white monoliths through the trees, then back to the stone altar.

"Go on."

She cleared her throat and fidgeted with unease. "I came to this place, and…" She inhaled a shaky breath. "I heard a voice demanding to know what I wanted." Her hands tightened around his hand. "You will think me mad, but it seemed not only to resound inside my mind. I could hear the voice with my ears as well, in the air all around me…" When he said nothing, she went on, "I was upset, the voice drove me to distraction, and I suppose I wasn't careful. I fell with the lantern and sliced my hand…"

Without a word, he lifted her hands closer to see, turning over first one then the other to study her palms. He frowned to see the newly healed pink scar from the cut that spread from the base of her thumb, to the center of her hand. With his index finger he traced the line, his eyes then sweeping to the table where a brown imprint stained the rock. He moved to brush that area with his fingertips, but before he could come close to touch the surface, she grabbed his wrist in a death grip.

"Don't!" she pled in warning. "Don't touch it."

"It will be alright." His voice came reassuring yet determined.

"What if you disappear into another century too?!"

"It won't happen. Trust me…"

"It's not you that I don't trust…"

Her brows drew together in abject worry, her eyes shining with panicked fear. She released her grip on his wrist, only to grab his arm and hold it to her bosom, as if afraid he might suddenly dissolve from her side.

"Christine, it will be alright. Nothing will happen…"

He heard her abrupt inhalation as he brushed the bloodstain with the fingertips of his other hand, then her slow release of breath when both remained standing and no unearthly abduction occurred.

The imprint resembled her small hand; the blood shed must have covered the whole of her palm, though why the fresh blood did not wash away in the hailstorm he failed to understand. Once the ice melted, surely the water would have washed away the stain, but it appeared as if the blood had soaked into the slate to become part of the altar.

"What happened to you then?" he asked pensively.

"The earth sounded as if it were coming apart from inside," she gave another little shudder against him. "It was so horrendously loud, and my head ached fiercely. I couldn't breathe and tried to find shelter beneath the table when the hail began to fall…"

At those words, he knelt to look beneath the rim of rock and brushed his fingers along a smear of rust brown within the cubbyhole where she'd hid. This time she did nothing to prevent his scrutiny, though she did also drop to her knees, placing her hand to his shoulder as if fearful to lose contact with him even for an instant.

"The earth felt as if it were tilting," she went on without being asked, "I could no longer breathe. It grew worse – the wind, the hail, the awful screeching and groaning – I felt as if I was crumbling apart inside, as if my very being might explode as the earth seemed to be doing. And then I must have passed out. I remembered nothing more until I woke up lying in the grass. It wasn't wet from the storm, but dry, as were my clothes, though it was still night, and I thought that very strange, thinking only a short time must have passed. I left this place, to return to the chateau, and that's when your men found me."

The Phantom stood to his feet, grasping her arm to help her up.

"And was it a feast day when this happened to you?"

"Yes. The same as here – the Midsummer Solstice."

He nodded, staring again at the table of slate. "I recall a ballad I had forgotten, whether due to my lapse of memory and the dark spells I am unsure. It spoke of a faerie hill and a mortal woman who went there to confront the Fae queen and save her true love imprisoned there, but she disappeared into the ring of stones, never to be found again…"

He brushed the pads of his fingers along the engraved symbols nearest him in curiosity, feeling her arms again wrap desperately around his other arm. Mayhap it was a trick of the setting sun, but the ancient text beneath his hand seemed dimly to glow as if embers lay buried beneath their shallow etchings.

Christine gasped and stepped back, urgently tugging him with her.

"Please let us leave this awful place, Maestro. Surely there's nothing more to see here."

He allowed her to pull him with her a few steps in retreat. Something crunched beneath the sole of his boot, and he looked down to see.

Something shimmered on the ground. He crouched down to peer more closely, and Christine leaned over his shoulder.

"I think it must be a piece from the lantern that broke…" Her gaze searched the area, and she pointed. "There."

The Phantom approached the grassy patch several feet away and dropped to one knee. He picked up an odd contraption of ebony metal and glass – not bubbled or hazy or leaded. It was stained with no color save for the rust hue of her blood where she'd cut her hand on its jagged edge. He held the small receptacle upright. A trace of liquid surrounded a wick inside it. He placed his finger there and rubbed the wetness with his thumb and forefinger then brought them to his nose. It was an odd but strangely familiar odor, though he swore he'd never come by it before.

"It's kerosene," Christine said, coming up behind him, her words more than a little curious. "The oil used to light the lamp."

Never had he heard of such an oil, never had he seen a lamp with glass so thin and clear it was _transparent_. He withdrew from his pouch the flint and struck it so that the spark ignited against the tip of the slender wick. It caught at last, burning clear and bright. He stared at the tiny flame a moment, then fiddled with the knoblike protrusion at the side of the glass, which magically adjusted the strength of its luminosity.

All the while Christine watched in fascinated confusion, repeatedly turning her attention to him and then to the lamp he held. He blew out the flame and brought the small lamp closer to his scrutiny, studying the elegant lines of its metal structure. Turning it over, heedless of the hot oil that ran onto the grass, he noted an inscription engraved at its base.

His heart seemed to stop as he read, and read again:

 ** _J_** ** _Schlossmacher_** _à Paris Xre_ _ **1869**_ _\- No. 126_

The markings of the maker, the city, the year, the issuance of the number made…

 _The year._

"Dear God…"

His whisper came as a fervent oath of disbelief wrapped within a hopeless prayer for understanding.

 ** _The year…_**

Swiftly he looked up from where he knelt to where Christine stood, wringing her hands in her skirts. His eyes took her in from tousled head to covered foot, before returning to her anxious face.

"Maestro, are you alright?"

At her faint whisper and the tentative touch she ghosted over his shoulder, he felt thoroughly shaken. Somehow he rediscovered the power of speech, if only to utter three syllables.

"Forgive me."

She shook her head, at a loss.

"What…? _Why_?"

He released a long shuddering sigh and with it the remainder of his ability to speak. Slowly he shook his head, returning his attention to the lamp in his hands. Feeling as if he were in a mindless daze, he laid it carefully back onto the grass as if it might shatter into nothingness if he held it any longer. For the barest moment, he understood and shared her fear that once seemed ludicrous in its impossibility. Logic seemed to fade into oblivion, the tenets of all he believed fast crumbling to dust…

"Maestro, please – you're frightening me…" Her hand moved to lightly press against his jaw under the mask. "May we leave now? Have you not seen all you wished to see?"

The Phantom stared up at her a moment, realizing she was speaking. Seen…he had seen, yes, but had yet to comprehend…

Wearily he stood to his feet. She again wrapped her hands around his arm, this time offering support, and in this incomprehensible moment that lacked clear sense he needed it. He looked back toward the rock altar, the source of such utter misery and merciless division.

"Maestro…?"

At the dread that once more clouded her voice, he barely nodded in answer to her repetitious plea before she could ask again, and turned her away and to their waiting horse.

xXx

Immensely relieved to depart the wretched megaliths, Christine set her focus entirely on her husband. She couldn't help worry over his marked behavior. He moved with studied deliberation, still graceful but as if he must contemplate each action before it was taken, his manner again distant, but eerily so…always as ever silent as a ghost.

It frustrated her to no end that the memories that surely must torture his soul – the horrific life of the babe left as a sacrifice on the ancient altar – did not even _belong_ to him. Her Erik of the 19th century suffered none of those tragedies, though his story, what little she knew of it, was just as heartrending. But of course she could say nothing about his error in the belief that he was Le Masque, though she sorely wished she could alleviate his unjust torments and unburden her soul.

"I expect we'll be arriving at the campsite soon," she said, desperate to steer the conversation away from any potential mention of the stones now that they'd finally left them.

"Not yet," he said after a moment. "I have one final place I wish to visit."

"Oh?" she said, thankful he had dispensed with his silence, but nervous as to his meaning.

He looked at her then, studying her face almost as though he'd never seen it before.

"Maestro…?"

"You must be weary. A pond lies a short distance from here. We will stop there to rest."

"Oh, yes," she said in gratitude. "That does sound lovely."

Within a short time, they arrived at the promised pond. It sat still and serene, shadowed by a myriad of overhanging tree boughs, making it appear as a sheltered bower. Christine refreshed her face and the nape of her neck with the cold water, wishing for the uncomplicated ease and playful camaraderie they had known by the brook earlier that day.

Her Maestro sat on a low shelf of rock by the pond's edge, one arm propped against his upraised knee. He stared at the water, scattered here and there with lily pads, the fragile wings of dragonflies that darted over the surface shimmering with iridescence against the evening sun. Yet she doubted he saw any of it, his mind seeming fathoms deep.

Taking the napkin with leftover berries from the basket, she hesitantly approached her husband and sat down beside him.

"Maestro? I brought you something to eat..."

With slow measure, as if just aware of her existence, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes behind the mask were gentle, shining a silvery grey in the soft evening light, very little blue to them, and she held a breath as they traveled over every curve of her face. His hand lifted to brush away a damp ringlet from her cheek, the callused pads of his fingers a tender rasp against her skin.

"I believe you."

His words, barely there, Christine felt to the bottom of her soul. Still, she shook her head, not certain she understood.

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

"I believe you," he said again. "All of what you said. That you came through the stones from a distant century."

Her heart clenched in shock with his coveted words, the relief they brought coming in waves that threatened to bring back the tears.

"You truly do?" she whispered. "You believe me?"

He nodded, cupping one side of her face.

"Oui, ma damoiselle. I do. Forgive me for the length of time it took to arrive to that point."

She smiled and sniffled through the wretched tears that seemed determined to fall, and he brushed the damp trails away with his thumb.

"You could hardly be blamed for doubting me," she said. "It is all rather incredible…"

"Quite."

"Yes, well…now that you know it's real, now that you believe me, does it matter?"

She held her breath, afraid to know, desperate to hear…

"That you are nearly four centuries older than I?"

She narrowed her eyes in a little grimace at his mildly teasing rejoinder. Hardly that, and certainly he must outnumber her in years by what she presumed was a decade and a half. But she couldn't tell him so without revealing his identity.

"I am but seventeen, monsieur..."

"And as young and beautiful as the first breath of spring."

Somewhat pacified by his poetic compliment, she nodded solemnly.

"You are forgiven."

He grinned faintly at her mock-solemn words and leaned in to kiss her forehead. She relaxed for the first time in what must be hours. Resting her head against his strong shoulder, she looked out over the placid water, allowing the languid atmosphere to lull her into a sense of security.

The minutes passed in blissful ease, moments sorely missed from their day.

"It's so peaceful here, Maestro. Shall we stay the night?"

"We have one last destination before the sun sets."

"The camp?"

"No, not the camp."

Christine furrowed her brow in amused vexation when he said nothing more.

"Is it to be a secret then?"

She felt no true dread. Surely there could not exist a place as horrid as the standing stones. Perhaps he was taking her to another hideaway surprise, like what she had come to think of as the fairy hill, with its many delightful fireflies…

Her cheery thoughts dwindled to grim recollection of the ballad he referred to at the megaliths. He called the ring of stones a fairy hill. Yet such horrid places should not be given deceptive names of allure! Devil's Rock or Demon's Trap seemed more suitable.

"We are going to a place I thought never to return," he answered at last, his tone grave. "The witch's cottage."

There was neither deception nor allure to be found in that, and she lifted her head in shock to look at him.

"Why would you wish to go there?"

He took gentle hold of her hand, kissing the knuckles, his lips cool against her skin. The gesture was so tender, the look in his eyes so distant…

"Maestro?"

"Come, mon amour. Let us continue on our journey."

He stood, once more helping her to her feet. For an instant Christine thought of pleading to stay at this lovely pond for the night, to use any means to delay, but what was the point of shirking the inevitable? His obdurate nature would remain intact; she'd had a lifetime of experience to know that. He would insist on visiting the dreadful cottage that _was never even his home_ – whether now or later, what did it truly matter? Best to go with all rapidity and get it done and over with and forever put behind them.

A short time later Christine again stood, horrified, in a place she had no wish to be, wishing to rescind her passiveness not to further persuade a night's sojourn at the pond.

She swallowed hard and stared at the small crofter's cottage, a cottage she had been to before…

It stood whole, of white stone and thatched roof, not yet the casualty of a fire, with ivy growing wild up along its walls. The area in which they now stood – atop a slight slope of ground, beneath the wayward branch of a tree whose trunk appeared split in half from a bolt of wayward lightning – was the exact spot in which Raoul told her that Erik was dead.

Christine felt her trembling knees give out, the mossy ground, as then, swiftly rising up to greet her – this time the arms that caught her his arms…

Not dead, not erased from the world , but transported to another time, as was she. She had wished for, _prayed for_ this moment, to be with him again. It still seemed too incredible to believe…

"Christine, are you unwell?"

He supported her with his hand at the base of her spine, her back leaning solidly against his arm. Shaken by the day's series of strange events, she looked up into his questioning eyes and slipped her fingers to the nape of his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers in reply.

"I'm so thankful you're with me," she tipped her head back slightly to say, their breaths intermingled. "It's all I have wanted…"

He brought her slowly upright, his eyes puzzled, almost – remorseful? – until a shutter swept over them, shielding the glimpse of tender emotion her words produced.

Before Christine could question what he hid, Erik took her hand.

"Come, my dear. You may rest inside."

"Why exactly _are_ we here?"

He hesitated but this time awarded her curiosity.

"There is a matter that requires careful examination, and the means to acquire it is to be found within."

His enigmatic words hardly provided the assurance needed.

Warily Christine followed Erik's lead to the abandoned hovel, a sudden dread casting a dark pall over her soul. She sensed by opening the door to whatever shadowed secrets lay inside, enlightenment, like a blade, would cut bone deep...

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Oh dear…I wonder what the Phantom has in mind…? ;-)  
**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews - and welcome to my new readers! :) I think some of you will be happy with the direction this chapter takes (though you may hunt me down at the end of it...) ;-)  
**

 **And now...**

* * *

 **XXIII**

The Phantom scowled at the roughhewn door that had warped with age and neglect. Despite its pathetic inadequacy as a shield to the outdoors, it still proved necessary to exert force and push the gnarled wood inward with a strong heave of his shoulder. Christine let out a nervous shriek when some small black creature flew out at them, a bird or a bat, he was uncertain. It happened too quickly.

He entered; she remained behind.

At her blatant reluctance to venture indoors, he sent her a reassuring glance. "No doubt, the interior is in a wretched state and has served as refuge to fowl and beast alike, but you have no need to fear. I am well versed in dealing with both, as you may recall from our experience with the nocturnal winged creatures of the caverns."

She visibly shivered at the reminder.

"Beast…?" she echoed uncertainly. "What kind of beast?"

He grinned. "The fanged and fur-clad kind."

She shot him a look that expressed she was not one bit amused by his flippant answer.

"Relax, ma damoiselle. I will protect you. Have I yet failed?"

He again pushed hard at the door, the bottom hanging lopsided and dragging the ground, digging a furrow in the dirt, but at last it stood almost all the way open. There were no windows, and he struck his steel and flint against the lantern Christine held, soon providing a modicum of light.

Pellets of animal droppings, feathers, and bits of fur littered the earthen floor as well as every horizontal surface of scant furniture. The musty odors of disuse permeated the air. In the far corner stood a contraption he had not remembered up until this moment, though he could not conceive how he could have forgotten the construction of misery and steel. Before she could notice its presence, with a swift flourish of his cloak he covered the large cage with the abundant swath of black wool then swiftly moved to the opposite side of the room and the bed there.

The blanket that covered the straw ticking was peppered with the leavings of animals, leaves and dirt, the straw moldered. He whisked the mess off the bed, replacing the moth-eaten cover with one of the luxurious thick pelts, spreading the corners end to end.

"This should suffice for one night," he said, at last turning to face her. She looked away from studying their meager surroundings and to his eyes. "I apologize once more for having so little to offer you."

"No, don't apologize. It's fine. We slept on a bed much more narrow than this at the inn."

At the reminder of their warm, intimate embrace, and her smooth, silken skin pressed against every part of his yearning flesh - a taste of heaven in those narrow confines - he turned abruptly away.

"The bed is for you alone. I will not be sleeping."

"Surely you're not serious?" Her voice was filled with confusion.

"I have spent many a night without slumber."

"But…why?" She looked around at the four stark walls, as if to seek an answer, and seemed to come to a decision. "I'm not that sleepy; I'll stay up with you."

"It would not be advisable. I have much reading to do." So saying, he opened the chest against the wall. Uncertain of which book to select, he chose all three.

"Reading?" she questioned in soft disbelief. "Reading of what…?"

He hesitated with what to share, leery of her response to what must transpire, his heart heavy with the fate he could not dismiss. He sought for words to appease.

"You have told me that you often ponder your presence here and how it came to be." He set the stack of large books on the table, somewhat surprised the rickety contraption remained standing.

She drew close to where he'd taken a seat on the solitary stool. It too, despite its weathered condition, proved adequate to support his tall lean build.

"Yes, at first. But we already discovered how it happened - through the stones."

"You have no wish to know the details?"

"I'm not sure it's really that important…" He heard the thread of suspicion in her voice. "It happened, I'm here, and now I'm with you. Does it matter how it came about?"

"I believe it does, yes."

He felt her watch him as he opened the first of the leather-bound grimoires, this, a thick volume he recalled the witch refer to often.

"I'm not certain I understand," Christine said, drawing closer then gasped. "Are those… _spells_?" He heard the incredulous disquiet in her tone. "Why are you looking up spells, when you said that all witchcraft is taboo? You don't actually know how to cast them – do you?"

Grimacing at her seemingly endless inquisitive nature, he turned one of the yellowed, crease-worn pages.

"I seek reference to those elements inscribed on the stone," he replied. "And the definition of those I could not translate."

"But – why? Why does it even matter? Please explain the nature of such a desire, Maestro."

Christine stared hard at the rigid set of his shoulders.

She had offered to forego sleep and stay up with him, thinking perhaps he was plagued with false memories of living in this hovel. Upon entering the sparse dwelling she did not miss sight of the cage and had hurriedly looked away before he could see the tears that glistened in her eyes. True, Erik had not been locked inside _that_ particular iron monstrosity, but as a small boy he had also been cruelly locked inside a cage by evil gypsies and through no fault of his own.

The appearance of the witch's books and his keen interest in their existence and deliberate involvement in searching through their pages suggested a scenario she would not like. Too often in their past, when he was her teacher and she his student, as well as in the bittersweet hours of their latter days together at the Opera House, when he was her abductor and she his captive, she remained mute and submissive when she should have spoken out or acted.

Never would she make that mistake again.

Christine placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me why you're doing this."

He inhaled a deep breath and held it, letting it out slowly.

"I am attempting to put matters to rights."

Attempting to put matters to…

Her fingers tightened against him.

"Tell me that you don't mean what I think you mean…"

 _Take her, go – forget me, forget all of this!_

His previous command during those arduous final minutes inside his lair, in that fateful three-way battle among Erik, Raoul, and herself resounded inside her mind.

Her hand clenched into a fist against his tunic.

"Tell me you're not sending me away…"

"To your century," he finished what she could not speak and lifted somber eyes to look at her at last. "Is that not what you have wanted, what you have wished for, _dreamed_ for since coming to this world? You said that you were 'ripped' from your time with no knowledge that such an act could occur. You spoke in great distress of those friends you left behind, Madame and Meg Giry. You have admitted to feeling adrift and frightened in this century -"

"Why is this always so easy for you?" she hissed, giving a little push with her fist against his shoulder, the tears again welling in her eyes.

"EASY?!" Her words ignited the fuse, and like a stick of dynamite, he exploded off the stool, which fell to the floor. He whirled around, grabbing her by the arms and giving her a shake. "You deem this to be _easy_ for me? To find and lose the one half of my soul I never knew existed – you label that as **_easy_**?"

"Then why do it?" she cried softly.

"This world to which you have come is extremely perilous for you, a world about which you no nothing."

"So teach me!"

"In the fortnight you have been here, you have been attacked," he went on heatedly as if she'd not spoken, "your virtue was nearly seized, your life damn well nearly lost, and you are in constant danger of falling prey to the Vicomte's traps."

"You swore to give me protection – will you now deny it?"

"Always I will protect you!" he gritted between clenched teeth. "It is in this by which I must let you go. This world is more violent than to what you are accustomed. I saw the shock in your eyes when I cut down that fiend in the street, the horror. Clearly your world is not like mine."

"In that respect, my world is _exactly_ like yours," she countered, thinking of the fire that destroyed the Opera House, the killings, the pain, not all of it wrought by his hand. "Do not think the passage of centuries put an end to all the sorrow and violence and bloodshed – it didn't. And though there are gendarmes in place absent in this medieval world – men who deal with those violators – it doesn't change the fact that every day I lived at the theater there were those who sought to harm the innocent and rape the weak …" She shuddered, thinking of the lewd Buquet and the rumors she'd heard whispered about him.

The Phantom's lips tightened into an angry line. "The next feast day is Lughnasadh, the first day of August. I will study the tomes, to find what we must know."

"You still mean to send me away?" she asked in horrified disbelief. "Do you even care about me one little bit? Were your vows of eternity all lies?"

"It is _because_ I care for you that you must return," he insisted bitterly. "Do not forget that one slip of your reckless tongue with regard to your existence here, if heard by the wrong ears, can lead you to a stake of fire!

"And you think a future without you would scorch my heart any less?" A sudden thought gave her hope. "If I must go back, then you must come with me."

He shook his head in impatient sorrow.

"I do not belong to your time."

"But you do!" She clutched his arms, his hands still grasping her beneath the shoulders.

"I carry a sword and destroy those men who do me harm – all without repercussion. In your world, I would be considered one of the violators your gendarmes seek, and they would imprison me or worse. I cannot change what I am, Christine."

The tears rolled freely down her cheeks. In their century, he _was_ a wanted man for his violent crimes against those at the Opera House, and their world was perilous for him, just as this world in which they now dwelt was perilous for her. She shook the disloyal thought from her mind.

"There must be a way for us to stay together," she insisted. "We could find somewhere safe to live."

"Fate did **_not_** intend this, Christine, no matter how we may wish otherwise. A mistake was made through the magic of the stones, one that must be rectified. You could never be happy in this life, and all I seek is your happiness and protection."

His words, though soft, shredded like a razor to her heart.

"Then **_stop_** always pushing me away! I cannot go back there without you, Erik – **_cannot live a life without you in it_**!"

She clutched him more fiercely in her desperation to make him understand, unheeding of her telling words.

His eyes chilled to an icy blue-grey, though his quiet tone did not falter and his hold did not tighten with the slip of her tongue.

"There is your proof. You try, but cannot forget him or your past and the life to which you belong. With Erik –"

"YOU are Erik!"

The admission erupted from her like a fount of molten lava, impossible to hold back any longer. His eyes narrowed but she couldn't seem to control her tongue, could no longer seem to care to shield the secret or recall why it was so important to keep the truth from him.

"You are part of that life – my life – and you always have been – _you_ are my Angel of Music. Don't you yet see?" She shook her head in tearful frustration. "I have known you almost my entire life, our life, and I lost you. And I don't ever want to be without you again!"

"Control yourself, Christine. You have no idea what you're saying."

"I know **_exactly_** what I'm saying and who I'm with!"

She released her hands from his arms and wrenched from his hold, stepping back, at last realizing the scope of what she'd admitted. Though it failed to matter. It was clear he believed she spoke out of confused hysteria. Her laugh came cynical through her tears.

"You wouldn't believe me about the stones and now you do. I never once lied to you, only to myself, though yes, I did withhold secrets – to protect you, just as you seek to protect me." She took in a shaky breath for calm, though her heart continued to race with dread. "Can we not simply go back to those moments when you didn't believe me and thought me a little mad? Can we not forget all of today and just continue with the life we had planned?"

His eyes closed in pain. "It kills me, the idea of letting you go," he managed, his voice a rasp, his own emotions teetering on the brink. "To have found you, to know you so intimately, yet know you will be better for letting you go. I will sacrifice all I must, my one opportunity at happiness, my _very_ _life_ – to keep you safe."

"If you send me back to my time _alone,_ I will never know true happiness again – not without you beside me. Not knowing you are trapped four hundred years in the past!" She shook her head stubbornly and swiped at the wetness on one cheek with the back of one hand. "No, Erik – I won't go. You gave me a choice once and then immediately took it away. This time, I **_demand_** the favor to choose!"

"You're not making one bit of sense –"

"I am making **_perfect_** sense. You just cannot see! _Oh, why won't you see…?_ " The last words she said in a mournful tone, barely above a whisper.

Christine took another small step back and another, then whirled around to the open door. She needed air to breathe, needed to be away from him a moment – the source of her greatest joy and her deepest pain – and she fled from the confined cottage.

Even in her distress, she knew better than to wander too far out into the darkness that had fallen, and found solace beneath the split tree, where twice in two lifetimes she had swooned from shock. Once, because she thought they were separated by death. More recently, at the frightful recollection of hearing the heartrending news. And now, once more, he planned to separate them in life.

Were they never meant to share their days and years together? Could fate be so unkind?

She pressed her palm to the knotted trunk and fell to her knees, her head bowed.

Even with her back turned to the door, she sensed him there watching, knew he would seek to ensure she was well, knew too that he could see her since the tree was in his direct line of vision.

"Do not stray from there, Christine," his low words came to her. "I vow I'll not trouble you."

She closed her eyes, the tears that again welled in them falling down her cheeks with the action.

 _Oh, Erik…you are not the trouble._

She did not say the words, could not yet face him or another volatile encounter where she always came out the loser. He was ready to throw what little happiness they'd found to the wind, or more aptly, to the stones, and she ached to the core with the realization. She would sacrifice everything she knew and no longer had to stay by his side for all of one lifetime – be it here in this antiquated civilization or in the refined elegance of the musical world they once both inhabited and loved.

Why did he not understand that?

She felt too drained to weep more tears and drew her legs up, clasping her shins while lowering her forehead to her knees. Drawing in a quivering breath, she forced herself to calm. He had said a month remained until Lughna-whatever he called it. The next feast day. Surely, in the four weeks remaining she could find a way to change his damnably stubborn mind.

In the silence of the night, she prayed, her plea quiet, fervent and imploring. Prayed as she once prayed in the chapel on the night of the Don Juan – this time, not for events to change their course but for all to remain as it should always have been. Raoul had then appeared with irksome words of how the Phantom would haunt them 'til they were dead.

Christine released a hollow chuckle, at last realizing the truth of that cautionary statement. Erik had taken permanent lodging inside her mind and her heart, also claiming her body. She would not be without him again, especially after knowing the depth of what it meant to be his.

The chirruping of cicadas and other melodies of nature lulled her into a catatonic sort of slumber, half asleep, half awake, with her half-closed eyes trained on the open door and the glow of candlelight coming from inside the cottage. To Christine's relief and confusion, Erik never again made an appearance, never again attempted to approach her.

After some time passed, she felt able to look at him again without begging to stay or weeping at the knowledge that he wanted her gone. He was certain to be thumbing through the penned pages of those wretched books, but since the sun had long set, the night air held a distinct, unwelcome chill, and she no longer wished to be apart from him.

She struggled to stand and make her way back to the cottage. The door remained open…

But Erik was not there.

x

At some point in the night, exhaustion of the day's events won over the dedication to await her husband's return.

Christine woke with a start from the dream that had terrorized her, at first frightened to find herself in a dwelling she did not recognize. A soft muted glow brought her attention that way.

Erik again sat at the table, grumbling to himself while intensely scrutinizing the pages of a tome by the light of one candle.

Christine's sigh came wretched to see his tenacity and with relief to have him near. She leaned toward him.

"Maestro?"

He turned his head to look at her. "I did not mean to wake you."

"I had a nightmare." Pride be damned, and if he thought her childish, she failed to care. "Would you please hold me…? I would really like it if you would hold me."

At first it appeared he might refuse, but at last he rose from the stool and walked toward her. She scooted back and reclined on the narrow bed, making room for him. He hesitated momentarily before stretching out beside her on the pelt. She burrowed against him, grateful when his arms closed around her.

"It was only a dream," he soothed.

She shuddered. "I was running from something...something evil. Blood covered the front of my gown. I was running," she repeated. "I was so frightened, but I couldn't find you."

"Christine…"

"Please, don't say anything right now," she softly begged, holding him tighter. "Only stay with me."

Christine had no wish to hear more of his horrid plans to send her away from this brutal world, or perhaps his queries as to what she meant when she so foolishly revealed his identity in a burst of reckless frustration. She was uncertain if it was a curse or a blessing that he did not believe her revelation to be in earnest, attributing it to hysteria of the moment …

The Phantom surrendered to Christine's soft request and held her closer. Weariness soon overtook his gentle wife, and he held her a moment longer before, wide awake with the burden of all he carried, he returned to the grimoire he'd been perusing. However, his mind wouldn't focus on the scrawled, nearly illegible words, his eyes oft straying to her slumbering form. Slowly he rose to stand beside the cot and watched her in repose, in sleep her angelic face tranquil and absent of the worries that daily beset them.

The very idea to let Christine go struck chords of anguished conflict deep within his battered heart, the strangest sensation flooding through those chambers that he had experienced such terrible loss before. She had called him by that cur's name again, in her barely restrained hysteria unable to make clear sense or understand whose company she shared.

That he greatly reminded her of _him_ was patently obvious, but in her acute distress, he no longer found anger in that truth, only a resigned melancholy that tore slow rifts through the foundation of his being. It was clear that she loved this demon of an Angel - Erik - despite his great sins against her…

Perhaps she always would.

Was it not only right that he should send Christine back to her century to know true safety and return to the presence of the one who held her heart, no matter how much it pained him to reach that understanding? The thought of letting her go brought nothing but the darkest of misery. Le Masque, for that is all he was, a hollow man behind a mask, bereft of a pure soul, a criminal unfit for a bride so sweet, so untainted…

He was nothing to her beyond two weeks ago. A stranger. Her abductor. And though she claimed to love him, after explaining to him what that meant, he could not help but wonder if it was to the wretched Erik that she truly spoke.

Had he never known about the stones, he would of course keep Christine with him all the days of his life, giving her all that was within his power to give. Now that he better understood the secret of bending time to their whim – he must give Christine that which her heart truly desired…

To go home.

"For you," he whispered, reaching down to touch her face, "I would sacrifice everything, my one love, my only love…"

The words were no more than uttered, when outside the wind increased in volume with an eerie howl, tempestuous in its fury. The Phantom turned swiftly to look out the door at the same time a blade of pain sliced through his head. Dizzy, he groped the wall for balance.

God, not this! _not now_ …

With no wish to disturb Christine's peaceful slumber, he swiftly left the cottage, closing the door fast behind him. If this siege on his mind followed the despicable pattern, it would last no more than an hour, each attack having lingered more briefly than the one before it, though the pain would grow more intense. The dark memories of that foreign night of wildfire and red smoke would soon invade, and he hoped to find his way to the stream before the attack overpowered him.

But it wasn't that night that filled his mind, only strange memories unknown to him…

 _"Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me, dear Angel…Will you teach me, Angel…? I wish only to sing…! Oh, I love the stories you tell…But did the god Hades love Per-sip-en-ee and did she love him...? Madame said she will allow me to dance in the opera this weekend - will you watch me, Angel…? Meg says you're not real – please don't be angry that I told her. She didn't believe me anyway…But I can't reach that note – no matter how hard I try…! Will you always be with me, Angel…?"_

The questions and comments of a child revolved inside his mind bringing with them a haphazard carousel of misty images flashing behind his eyes and what looked like a small chapel inhabited by a little girl with long dark curls.

Another bolt of pain thundered through his skull. He clapped his hands over his ears, his legs pushing him blindly forward through the dark wood, until he was at a staggered run.

" _Angel, why must you always hide from me…? I only wish to please you…Angel my soul was weak, forgive me, enter at last, master…Whose was that shape in the shadows, whose was the face in the mask…? In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…Angel or Father, friend, or Phantom – who is it there staring…? Angel of Music, I denied you, turning from true beauty…Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone...!_ "

The girl's bright wondering words had altered into a woman's poignant, slightly husky tones he had come to know well, evolving into a crystalline trickle of quiet melody. Images of the chapel persisted, whirling within his mind - a cave, a stage, a cemetery, a lady's chamber with a large rectangle of reflective glass that showed her image in detail and life-like, but as a transparent window when looking through to the opposite side …

The Phantom fell to his knees, dropping his masked face into his hands, clawing at his head with his fingers. Never had the agony been this intense. His skull felt as if it might literally explode into fragments, the unfamiliar images sharp yet misty in his mind, strange and diverse, exciting and terrifying…

The wind heightened in strength, blasting through the trees, a tempest throwing bits of moss and dirt swirling high in the air and stinging his exposed flesh. The dark heavens above shattered with thunder, lightning flashing madly all around. This time, he did not plummet into a dark sleep - but the crash of images and color, faces and rooms, intensified along with nature's wrath, each containing strangely dressed people in stranger candlelit chambers -

Phantom! Angel! Opera Ghost! Master!

" ** _Christine!_** " he rasped hoarsely before the darkness overtook him.

xXx

Christine woke abruptly, shaken by a voice in the night.

The room where she lay was dim and unfamiliar. In the time it took her to recognize her surroundings, she realized also that her husband was again absent. She sat up slowly and blinked the sleep from her eyes. All was silent. The cry of her name must have been a dream, like last time.

A candle burned on the table, melted down nearly to a stub and sitting in a pool of molten wax.

"Erik?" she whispered, though at a glance she could see the cramped dwelling was empty.

Her first terrifying thought – that he had left – immediately dissipated in light of all he'd told her. He would not abandon her to her own devices, especially now that he believed the truth of the stones' power. Of that she was certain. Likely he had gone in search of food – and she could do with fresh water, both to wash with and to drink.

She recalled that during her tour of the surrounding area with Raoul, a stream ran nearby, alongside where they once strolled, and she wondered if it was connected to the brook she and Erik previously visited. With the manner in which myriad outlets of water seemed to twist and meander through this huge forest, she wouldn't be surprised.

She tied on her slippers and wrapped her cloak around herself then blew out the faltering candle. Once she wrestled with the ornery door and stepped out of the dark cottage, she could see by the muted swirls of scarlet and violet in the sky that dawn had recently broken, though she couldn't see the morning sun, hidden by the thick foliage of shadowed trees.

Nor could she see Erik.

She hesitated with what to do and if she should wander from the cottage, but he had proven adept in his forestry skills. Tracking was one of them and she recalled how he once found her swimming naked in the lake. Her cheeks burned with the memory, though now she could smile, the new intimacy of their relationship smoothing over any previous rough spots of embarrassment she once suffered.

Carefully she studied the area. Strange…she thought she'd heard rain and thunder at some point during the night, but the leaves and ground appeared dry…

Shrugging off what she told herself must have also been a dream, she walked past the witch's cottage along the route she recalled taking with Raoul. The undergrowth appeared different, denser. The trees, save for several not being as tall in her century were mostly familiar, allowing the same route to be taken through them.

Eventually Christine heard the sound of water trickling over rocks and congratulated herself on a successful venture. The stream was just that, a narrow channel of water rushing over smooth stones, nowhere near as wide as the brook they previously visited, the water here coming only to her ankles, but it was sufficient for what she needed.

She cupped the icy-cold water in her hands and splashed it on her face and neck, then took a refreshing drink. The air was brisk, the birdsong in the trees a cheerful greeting to the morn. Sitting idle and allowing the water to trickle through her fingers, her mind rippled with the previous day's events, her last thoughts of Erik holding her tenderly in his arms while she slept.

Four weeks was a long time; so much could happen in half that span - and had, for her. Journeying into another world. Meeting the leader of those bandits who captured her, reuniting with her lost love, marrying him and becoming his in every conceivable way while learning this new, somewhat frightening, and thoroughly adventuresome manner of medieval life…

Surely, in twice that time, she could convince him to forget his morbid fascination with discovering the secret of the stones and allow her to remain by his side.

Caught up in the beauty of the dawn, her outlook for the future again offered a glimmer of hope. She began to hum the aria of what she was surprised to note was no more than a month past, that long-ago day in the cemetery. Soon the familiar words shaped her lips...

" _Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near, sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here_ …"

Her voice was a wisp, hardly stage-worthy, but that seldom seemed to matter anymore.

" _No more memories_ …"

She must forget.

" _No more silent tears_ …"

She wiped their former presence from her cheeks.

" _No more gazing across the wasted years_ …"

At the last stanza, her voice went soft and gentle…

But _how_ could she forget all they were and had once been to each other? To bid an eternal farewell to that life felt like asking her to cut a vital piece of her flesh away. While such an agonizing feat might not prove fatal, the knowledge of its former presence would never disappear. Always it would leave a scar behind to remind her.

" _Help me say goodbye..._ _help me say goodbye!_ "

The day no longer seemed as bright, the cheer having drained from it. She shook her head in bitter frustration.

Somehow she must conquer these pesky feelings of sorrow and regret. Somehow she must accept the change and live on without looking back. In truth, she would gladly accept whatever morsel he offered, would accept him wholly as Le Masque and never think of his old nature again, or at least try, if only he would allow her to remain…

" _Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance_ …"

Christine's breath froze in her lungs. Her hands trembled in her skirts.

Her Angel's song came softly, lacking in strength, a bare wisp as hers had been but with a mesmeric beauty that could never be forgotten.

Slowly, anxiously, she turned her head to look over one shoulder.

He stood a short distance away, his hand braced against a tree as if holding it for support. Behind the mask, an expression she could not define filled his shimmering eyes…

Confusion? Uncertainty? Bewilderment?

He moved his hand higher up the tree to brace himself, his cloak sliding away and revealing half his chest. To her horror, she noticed a dark, wet stain gleam on the black tunic near his ribs, beneath his heart.

"Christine…" he whispered, his hand reaching out to her, before his knees gave way and he collapsed to the ground.

xXx

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 **A/N: Uh oh... (do I need to run?) Thanks again for the reviews! (And Happy Mother's Day to all moms out there!) :)  
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	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: A short chapter, yes, but in trying to post sooner than later, that is sometimes the price required. (And I was pretty certain you guys didn't want to wait another week for me to add another section. ;-)) ... Thank you for the reviews! They help me press forward, and I absolutely love how you guys are catching the little clues...And now...**

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 **Previously: Upon their arrival to the cottage, the Phantom is determined to peruse the grimoires to find needed answers to the mystery of the stones, much to Christine's displeasure. She is determined not to leave him; he is determined to see her go, for her safety, though he doesn't want her gone either. They argue, and Christine admits that he is Erik, but he thinks she is hysterical and unaware of what she's saying...he consoles her after a nightmare, and as she lays sleeping he states aloud his love and that he will make whatever sacrifice he must for her. A sudden storm strikes - at the same time a dark spell overtakes him. He leaves Christine sleeping and sets off into the night, but finds this spell different from the others, spurring a host of visions and images he's never before had and bringing with them a pain more intense than any previously suffered...the next morning Christine wakes to find Erik absent. She goes in search of water, hoping he'll soon return, and sings in an attempt to lift her spirits. The song once sung in a Paris cemetery complete, she hears the quiet, musical words that had then been his reply, and turns in shock to see him near the trees, wounded, his shirt bloody...**

 **XXIV**

.

Christine remembered the true meaning of fear as she watched her beloved Maestro slump insensible to the ground.

"Erik!"

Stunned horror overtook her so that she made no attempt to refrain from crying out his name, though clearly he had not heard. She rushed toward his inert body and fell to her knees by his side. His beautiful eyes were closed, what little she could see of his skin pale. Shaking his shoulders did not rouse him, nor did lightly slapping his jaw beneath the mask. Repeated attempts of speaking his name failed to wake him.

"Dear God, what has happened now?" she hoarsely whispered, pulling aside his tunic to reveal what the tear there shielded.

Something had slashed his side, thankfully thin and not too deep, the blood having congealed, so the wound wasn't fresh. She breathed a sigh of deep gratitude that he hadn't been seriously injured, though he may bear yet another scar.

But why would he not awaken? What had caused him to fall? Another spell? It must be…

With no spare cloth or means to sever her undergown for a wet compress, she hastened to the stream and submerged her hands past her wrists into the icy water, then darted back to his side. Sinking to the ground, she managed to lift him beneath the shoulders and brought his head gently to rest in her lap. Stroking his sallow cheeks and bristly jaw beneath the mask with her damp fingers, she felt desperate to revive him.

This felt…different. Not like the times she had previously found him immersed in his mire of personal darkness. She could not recall during either of those times being unable to rouse him from the depths of unnatural slumber. Even if he had been groggy, he had responded in some manner.

Her lips quietly formed an earnest petition. With all they endured, two centuries of pain and joy, want and need, she could not lose him now.

"Maestro, please, you must wake up."

She ran her fingers down one side of his neck and to his throat, spreading the trickle of droplets against the sluggish beat of his pulse. A hot tear fell to join with the cold stream water. With the pads of three fingers, she lightly touched his dry parted lips.

His hand suddenly flew up to encircle her wrist. She gasped with shock at the abruptness of the act and lost all breath when his eyes fluttered open, finding and holding her own.

Relief filled her, but even had she known what to say, her vocal chords felt paralyzed.

His eyes bespoke the emotions of earlier – easier to discern up close – and she sensed that in their blue-gray penetration, besides the lost confusion and burgeoning wonder there lurked the feeling of utter disbelief.

His words when they came were as quiet and deep as before, the mere sound of his voice shaking her to the depths of her soul.

" _Have you forgotten all I once taught you?_ "

"I didn't…I…" She struggled to find sense. "I only left to find water. I was here once, weeks ago in my time. I didn't tell you last night, so much had happened. And then you disappeared and I didn't know where you'd gone?" She phrased her remark as a question, but did not wait for his reply before continuing, "I remembered the stream. I wasn't lost or in danger and would have returned to the cottage soon. But you – what happened to you–?"

The press of his fingertips against her lips cut off any further stilted explanation and concerned question that could tumble from her mouth.

"Have you forgotten," he said again, his words more carefully enunciated but still just above a breath, "how to sing?"

How…to…

 _Sing_?

A rush of warmth composed of faltering hope and budding joy chased away the chill of concern that made her tremble as he did.

"I…don't know what you mean," she whispered the last words in a rush, disbelieving of what his questions seemed to tell her.

"Have you forgotten, as well, what the concept of the word implies…?"

She swallowed hard, unable to form speech, nervous to make the attempt. Barely, she shook her head.

He drew his fingertips tenderly along her jaw to her ear, tucking a wild tendril behind the rim.

"Have you forgotten your Angel…? _"_

The faint, dulcet words struck her heart with such shock, such elation, such pain – that momentarily she could not breathe, could only press her hand against his where it touched her face.

The tears rained down her cheeks, the salty moisture running into her mouth and dripping onto his tunic.

Angel? **_Angel_** … _ **?**_

"Erik? Is it…is it _you_ _?_ "

In reply, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed the softest of kisses to her palm.

" _Christine_ …"

Still afraid to acknowledge what circumstances boldly seemed to declare, she resisted the pull to believe, having disappointment shatter hope all too often.

"I-I don't understand."

"Nor do I." Releasing her hand, he struggled to rise, pushing his long, lean body up to sit. He rested one forearm on bended knee and shook his head dazedly, as if to clear it.

She could not look away, watching him intensely, brimming with questions but not knowing where to begin.

"What do you remember?" she asked tentatively. "Did a dark spell overtake you?"

"Dark spell," he repeated more audibly, that strange awe still in his voice that rasped and sounded as if he had screamed it raw. She winced, wondering how long he'd been absent – the entire night? Had he cried out for her and she'd not heard him?

The dream – she suddenly remembered – was no dream. She _had heard_ him call for her in her sleep! But - did he recall that he'd done so?

She clutched his arm in sudden dread.

"Please tell me you remember these past two weeks."

He stared, his eyes glittering through the sockets of the mask, as though he'd never seen her.

"The mob…"

"The mob?" she urged in a tight whisper.

"They found where I was hiding. Dragged me from the shadows. Stomped on my hands, kicked and beat me with clubs." His words increased in power, soft though they remained. "I barely had the presence of mind or the strength of will to crawl from the shore where they left me for dead. Madame Giry found my bleeding corpse and tended me. My sleep was deep, senseless, as one on the precipice of death. I thought I had died – then woke a short time ago to find myself in this forest."

The horror of hearing the torments he suffered rent her heart that beat wildly with the joy of those same words.

"Erik! My God - it IS you – _you remember who you are!_ "

No longer able to curtail the need, Christine violently threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her damp cheek against his warm neck. The bliss she felt to know that her dream had at last been realized faded a little when he remained as motionless as a column of stone, failing to return her embrace. His arms remained rigid at his sides. She pulled slowly away from him in anxious confusion.

"You left me to go with the boy," he said simply, no censure in his tone, only pain.

She felt as if a dagger had been thrust into her heart.

"You ordered me to go," she contradicted, then briskly shook her head. "You left me no choice. I came back, to give you my ring…"

"And left once more."

The accursed tears again clouded her eyes. There was no accusation in his words, only a resigned sort of acceptance. He spoke as if he only just remembered the ordeal and was trying to piece those events together to make sense of the present.

"What would you have had me do, after all that happened that night?" she asked sadly. "I couldn't think, couldn't decide for myself, and by the time I realized what I wanted, he wouldn't let me go."

He nodded as if just coming to an understanding.

"I remember. You told me this..."

He _remembered?_ She experienced a returning flicker of hope.

"Then you must remember also how very sorry I said I was for going with Raoul, for saying such cruel things to you…" and for leaving you there to die, but she did not add the damning words.

Why speak of what they both knew? She wished to mend the rift between them, not tear it into an irreparable chasm that could never again be breached.

He sighed. "I am not without fault, Christine. I took you against your will and tormented you with my reprehensible acts. In my madness, I killed an innocent man, all for the sake of vengeance…" He laughed without amusement. " _I_ am that miserable cur."

She shuddered with his stark admission, his last words seeming to attain a depth only he understood.

"I nearly died at the hands of the mob," he went on, "you were right to leave me. They might have killed you too."

She gave a little shake of her head, briefly averting her eyes to the ground. The words, true though they were, did not relieve the shame of her deplorable cowardice.

But that was then, when she ran from the pervasive shadows, from the uncertainty of the unknown, and from all the novel sensations this man made her feel. Events had changed dramatically over the course of two weeks. She was no longer that frightened girl.

"That was then," she spoke her thoughts aloud. "This past fortnight I have been with you, _stayed_ with you, given over every part of myself to be with you."

"Your innocence…" His tone softened in remorse. "Again, given a choice that was no choice."

"No, Erik - I chose to stay. And _this time_ I carried through with that choice. You may have kept me a captive, but had I wanted to leave, I could have found a way to escape. I evaded your men once, if you recall, to search for you by the lake. I could have done so again, but I _chose_ to stay. With you…"

"Abducted by the stones, against your will, from the time to which you belong."

"And you!" The words burst forth in a fount of frustration. "It is your time as well."

"No, Christine…" He shook his head gravely. "There is nothing left for me there. The safety of my home has been compromised. My Opera House is in shambles."

She blinked in disbelief. "You do not wish to go back to the nineteenth century?"

"I am a wanted man in both centuries. Here, at least, I have the respect of a handful and the freedom to go where I will, above ground, even with a mask." His smile was grim. "But you do not belong here. It is perilous for you to remain. In our time you would be safe."

"So as both Le Masque and the Phantom you will toss me aside and throw me away!" Incredulous anger sharpened her words. "Is that truly what you want? For me to leave you behind once more?"

"Do not forget, you were with the boy _by choice_ ," he said quietly in curt response to her outburst. "You told me on the first night you were brought to the campsite that you were with him at the Chateau Martinique, visiting his family. At least, with him, in your time, you will be safe."

His wretched words compelled Christine to struggle swiftly to her feet, and he looked up at her in surprise.

"You seem to recall our conversations these past two weeks, but have omitted any mention of the most important ones. Those where I told you I was so very sorry for what I did that night and attempted to come back. Those where I swore my love to you – and you said you loved me. Those where you said you would never leave me and would always protect me…"

Amazement brought a sheen to his eyes, making them shimmer like silver.

"You do not wish to go back to our time?" he asked at last.

She huffed a laugh devoid of amusement through her tears. Had he heard nothing she said?

"Not if you won't come with me."

Slowly she sank to her knees, settling her weight back on her calves, resolved to make him understand.

"This world is frightening, I don't deny that – the culture, the beliefs – and I'm still anxious with every sunrise and what that day will bring. But without you in it, the world is an empty, cold place, lackluster and incomplete. Before the stones took me, I told you I heard a voice – it demanded to know what I wanted. I never told you what I said. I cried out that I wanted to go back and relive the past, to change it – to have you alive and with me again. Don't send me away, Erik, please. I couldn't bear to live in any century, any world, without you in it."

"Christine…" Her name was silk slipping from his tongue.

She shivered a little at the coveted sound of those melodious syllables, at the wealth of emotion buried inside them, spoken with all knowledge of who she was and what they had been to each other.

He lifted his hand to her face, stroking her cheek with the tips of his fingers, brushing her tears away with a faint sweep of his thumb, almost as if he were afraid to touch her. Her tears continued to fall, splashing against his skin.

"How can you forgive all that I have done?" he asked quietly, dropping his hand away from her face to rest on his thigh.

Instantly she missed the cool press of his long, slender fingers against her skin.

"You are not the only one to blame. Raoul made it his personal vendetta to hunt you to ground like a wild animal. I tore away your mask to warn you, but could have chosen a better method to force you off that stage had I only taken the time to think twice –"

"Christine, enough." His words gained volume. "I will not have you take the blame for my sins. They are mine alone to bear."

She sighed. "Fine. Though from what you told me, you suffered horribly for your crimes, even to the point of death." She winced at the thought of him bloody and beaten, barely able even to imagine such a wretched outcome, wishing only to forget. "So, let that be the end of it. No one exists here to punish you for the crimes of Paris. And I will not go back through those stones without you by my side. _That_ is my choice, Mon Ange, and I will not be swayed."

His lips twisted into the facsimile of a smile, his eyes lighting up at the cherished and familiar endearment she had called him for nearly one decade.

"You have obtained quite the daring since last we parted, my little nightingale."

Christine almost giggled to hear one of his many pet names for her, first used when she was only a slip of a girl, eager to learn, but her smile fell away as she formed a reply.

"When I thought you were dead, nothing mattered with regard to those things that seemed so important before – the disapproval of others, my reputation…" She shook her head a little at the remembered pain. "My heart was grieving, and I found the strength within myself to seek after what I wanted. The night I woke up at the stones, before your men captured me, I planned to return to Paris alone, to find Meg and Madame Giry and seek work. I would never have married Raoul…not when I finally came to realize that my heart has always been yours."

His eyes behind the mask flicked back and forth to hers for truth, and unflinching, she gave it in all sincerity.

"I believe you," he whispered as if still amazed by the revelation.

"I should hope so." She sought for levity and smiled in mild admonishment. "After all, I came countless miles and hundreds of years to find you. And I surrendered my morning coffee to remain."

He chuckled low, the rich sound setting wings to her heart. The most beautiful music undoubtedly was his voice and his laughter, neither of which she experienced often enough.

Before she could draw breath to form her next words, he reached for her, hauling her close, his arms bands of lean steel around her back, and Christine relished the discomfort. They fell together in the grass still glistening with morning dew. She ignored its damp chill, drawing into his warmth and gently pressing her hands against his hard torso.

"I fear that if I let you go I will find this all a dream of delusion," he whispered hoarsely, and she shuddered at the feel of his lips brushing the skin above her collarbone at her neck as he formed the words. "That I will awaken in my subterranean dwelling and find this only a hallucination of my wretched state. How can this _even be_ …?"

She felt uncertain to what he referred. Their situation? Their setting? Their relationship? So much in the span of two short weeks had become incredible, no matter how real.

"You captured my heart when I was an orphaned child and became the most important person in my existence. Now you have all of me, and I want to share whatever world you inhabit forever. Never again think to send me away, Erik."

Her tender avowal released whatever barrier had restrained the expression of his deepest feelings, and he held to Christine more tightly, wetting her neck with his silent tears.

xXx

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 **A/N: Aw, look no cliffie. :) See I can be nice. ;-)**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I'm glad you guys enjoyed that! And now...**

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 **XXV**

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They lay entwined as the sun played peekaboo in its ascent through a dense canopy of leafy branches. At the onset of his quiet lamentation, Erik had soon lost control of his rigid composure, his quiet tears breaking into rasping sobs, and Christine had joined him in her own outpouring of emotion. She knew happiness for his return to himself, along with great relief tempered with faint regret for everything that had brought them to this moment. But the joy to hold him again – to hold _Erik_ – superseded all else.

It was an exhausting release, the spending of such tremendous feeling trapped away for so long, and every fiber deep into her bones felt sated and heavy, though her soul felt light, as if it might float away with the chill morning breeze. Her face was wet from her tears, her neck and curls drenched with his, their clothes damp from the dew. Yet once exhaustion gave way to silence, neither made a move to break apart from the other for a peacefully satisfying time.

When Erik did at last shift his body, separating himself from her arms, Christine watched him go, also sitting up. She sensed he needed a moment to collect himself after his violent deluge. His motions were edgy, tense, lacking his usual fluid grace.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing, and drew his fingers against the side of his tunic. Alarm drummed through Christine's veins when she saw red spotted his fingertips that he pulled away to glance at.

"You're bleeding again!" she cried softly in dismay.

He pulled the hem of his tunic up, revealing a streak of cracked red against his pale ribs, the scab having torn. "It is nothing." He waved aside her concern. "I am accustomed to pain much worse than this trifle. In my delirium, I must have fallen on a sharp rock or dead branch."

Her lips turned down at the thought of all he suffered in his past, to so carelessly dismiss his injury, and she knew in part some of his recent anguish was due to her rash decisions often instigated by fear, much of which she now knew to be groundless. He had never harmed her, as theatre Phantom-lore had warned, only wounded her feelings. And the physical intimacy they discovered with one another had been bliss.

"What I cannot fathom…" His words took on the same stunned wonderment of before. "…Is how I stand here as whole as a man in my natural state could ever be considered, with no broken ribs, no recent gashes nor bruises to further mar my flesh. Save for this nuisance, and I have no recollection how I came by it."

Christine frowned at her first full look at his injury.

"It must be deep to break away like that and bleed again. It should be tended."

"It requires no stitchery. A splash of what is in the flask will suffice."

Recalling the fiery potency of his foul spirits, Christine did not doubt his claim.

"How can I think this more than a fantastic dream," he mused and shook his head, "when every wound inflicted on my body _that_ night has vanished with my waking into this era?"

Christine's eyes went wide. She had not considered the enigma, having just learned of the mob's brutal retaliation toward him; but she had seen every inch of his bare skin in the lantern's glow to know that he was correct in his assessment. Save for the most recent gash along his ribs, there were no wounds that were fresh, all the scars on his body pale as if they'd been there for quite some time.

Her cheeks warmed to flame as a highly intimate image of their night together at the inn flashed behind her eyes, of her hands and mouth on his body. And though his gaze sharpened curiously on her face, he did not question.

"Are you saying that we are only asleep and sharing the same dream?" she asked in doubt. "How is that even possible? Because I assure you, every bit of what I have experienced in this century feels extremely real."

He nodded. "I agree. Each day forms a cohesive pattern, one step to the next, unlike the filmy cobweb of dreams. Which poses the next possibility. Death."

"Death?" she gasped. "You truly believe we might be _…dead?"_

His lips twisted in a thin smile at her bare utterance of the word.

"Fear not, my angel. I highly doubt death is the force that brought us here. I would not be granted the privilege of sharing the realm of angels with you, and I cannot imagine heaven consists of an ancient epoch in time rife with danger."

Her heart ached to hear him speak with such self-debasement. Did he believe himself undeserving of God's mercy because of the night of the Don Juan? Or was there more to it than that?

"I have many questions," she began then hesitated, uncertain which to ask first.

"In that regard we share the same sentiment."

"We could take turns." She offered the suggestion, wishing to keep the atmosphere tranquil when the subject was anything but trivial.

Huffing a breath, he strode to the edge of the stream. He folded his long length into a crouch and immersed his hands into the water to wash them. One hand lifted to his face, his slender fingers touching the bottom edge of his mask. Christine held a breath, waiting. He seemed to reconsider, however, dropping his hand away. Giving one brisk shake of both hands to free them of water, he again rose to his feet.

Certainly after such an upheaval of emotion, that dratted piece of leather, salty and wet with tears, could not be comfortable against his fragile skin.

"Erik? Perhaps -"

"You pose a feasible solution," he cut her off, as if knowing where her mind traveled. "What is your first question?"

Perhaps now wasn't the time to bring up the mask. She sorted through the many curiosities whirling inside her mind, but was as yet unsatisfied to end the current topic. "First, I wish to know what else you can tell me about all this. We ruled out dreams and dying. How else do you think this could have happened? Us being here? I mean, I know it was because of the stones - for me, at any rate. But how did you get here as well? _"_

"In this, my dear, I too am at a loss. The witch's grimoire seemed to point to a possibility, though I will have to research further into its text."

She hardly thought such a feat essential since it had been decided they would both remain in this medieval time.

"You think it might have been magic? Witchcraft?"

His nod came distant. "Perhaps."

"Before two weeks ago, I believed such things belonged only to fanciful opera tales or to the dark stories of the North I heard in my girlhood."

"No child's tale this." Behind the mask, his eyes took on a faraway look. "In my travels, I've had the experience to know that there does exist dark forms of magic."

"Your travels?"

His hesitation was brief. "Another time."

Curious about his mysterious past, but thankful he was agreeable to tell her at some point in time, she sought for other possibilities to explain their present conundrum. She recalled recent conversations with Tobias, as well as the servant girl at Chateau Martinique.

"What of the Fae? I've heard they can be quite wicked." Two weeks ago, she never would have believed she would be holding such a bizarre conversation. Of course two weeks ago, she would never have believed it possible to slip through time.

Erik snorted softly, his attention going to the trickling stream. "It is difficult to accept that faeries belong to nothing more than tales of that name, though in this century their existence appears to be common belief. Indeed, within the present Vicomte's family at the chateau, a story has evolved with regard to the impish forest creatures, one in particular."

Alert to his admission, having heard the legend before, she shifted position to sit up a little higher and look at him more closely.

"Erik, how is it possible that you possessed another man's memories?"

"Possessed – an apt word." He turned his head to look at her. "I have read accounts of demonic possession, and suppose this incident is not far removed, as I have oft been called a devil."

She frowned in disagreement at his derisive words. He had made many mistakes and countless enemies in their century, it was true, but toward her he exhibited kindness and gentleness as well.

"It is all very unsettling," she said, "to wonder where the true Le Masque has been all this time, for surely he must exist to be renowned as a leader to that band of ruffians. And he must also wear a mask – but do you truly look and sound so much like him that everyone is fooled?"

When Erik remained silent, deep in contemplation, she again spoke.

"You don't think he will suddenly emerge from wherever he's been hiding, do you?" She glanced nervously at the thick cloak of nearby bushes, as if the fearless rebel leader might suddenly tear from them and attack in retribution for stealing his life.

"I wish I could give you the answers you seek, my dear. However, I cannot yet understand what has happened to bring us to this place. Can barely conceive the truth of the situation - that we presently exist in this archaic epoch of time. That I have been living another man's life for more than a fortnight past…"

Christine pondered his quiet words that still held a ring of curious disbelief. She certainly understood the shock to find oneself dwelling in a previous century. It had taken her more than a day to believe, and nearly a week to accept. Added to that, he had just come into the perception of his true identity, and in truth, had been playing a masquerade without any knowledge of doing so.

Erik retraced his steps, lowering himself to rest his shoulder blades against the trunk of a tree across from where Christine sat. His movements were less erratic than before, his usual grace returned, but from the way his eyes narrowed in a wince and he pressed his fingertips to his temple, she could tell he still suffered from the effects of the latest dark spell.

He lifted his hand to his brow, rubbing against the mask.

"Does your head still ache?" she asked in concern.

His shoulders lifted in a mild shrug. "I have grown accustomed to it."

"If you wish to remove your mask, please go ahead and do so." His eyes snapped to hers, steely grey in warning, but she plunged onward. "I wouldn't mind."

"I am accustomed to the mask as well."

Accustomed to pain, accustomed to the mask. If he would just realize that she wished _only_ for his comfort.

"So then, Mon Ange, where do we go from here?"

One side of his mouth flickered up slightly at the familiar endearment. "I am as yet uncertain."

His indecision gave her hope, and she acted on that. "We have no true reason to return to the campsite. Those men don't appreciate you, and only Tobias and Eustace offer you the respect you deserve. But they can get along without your leadership surely. They did so before you came to this time; they can do so again."

"I will give the matter consideration," he said. "At present, there are three options that I can see. I will know more when I further study the grimoires."

"How can those dreadful books possibly help us?" She couldn't keep the trace of suspicion from her words.

He rested the back of his skull against the tree and closed his eyes.

"Rest easy, ma damoiselle, if you truly have no wish to go back through the stones alone, I'll not force you. But should the need present itself and we must return together, I would prefer to understand in full the method by which such an act can occur."

She stared at him in shock, her heartbeats quickening. When the silence stretched, he tipped his head forward to look at her.

"Christine?"

She swallowed thickly. "It's only that you called me that when, when you were _him._ I mean…"

"I know what you mean. It is unfortunate, but the memories of the opera house are muddled with the previous weeks, both hazy, neither predominant. I cannot recall the entirety of either time, as yet, and have no guarantee I ever will. If it troubles you, my calling you by that name, I will desist from it."

"No," she was quick to say, "it's not that. I rather liked when you said it and thinking of myself as your damsel. I only worried that you had forgotten yourself again."

His features relaxed slightly at her admission. "I assure you, for what it's worth, I am the Erik you have always known."

She smiled. "It is worth the world to me."

His gaze fastened to her lips, his eyes then lifting to hers. She wished she could read the depths of what they spoke, but his expression was incomprehensible.

"Shall we go back to the cottage, my dear?"

She had no true desire to return to that dark hovel of another man's pain and neglect, but sensed his eagerness to pore through the witch's grimoires, and reluctantly nodded her assent.

Erik pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand to assist her. Once she was upright, Christine did not let go. He gave her hand the barest squeeze and she smiled.

"You mentioned three options. Besides going through the stones and remaining at camp, what is the remaining choice?"

"We stay in this century and seek a life elsewhere, outside of Brittany and away from Paris."

"That sounds like the best idea."

"Perhaps…" He did not sound as certain. "Do not forget, with no trade, no theater, and no money, life will be very difficult. No one in this century would hire a man in a mask. Even in our time, there are few who would, and those few in all likelihood would bear motives that are suspect." He frowned, as if at a memory. "The leader of bandits whose existence I have possessed had the right idea – to pilfer what is owed him in order to survive."

Christine did not wish to think about his life of thievery, for at some point, all thieves were usually caught, weren't they? She shuddered to think of what they might do to him, especially in this barbaric century that burned people alive for the mere suspicion of witchcraft.

The outlook of all three options was hardly promising – to return to their century where he was wanted for dead; to return to the campsite where his men wanted her dead; or to strike out on their own in an era neither of them was familiar with, by laws and by customs, where one wrong word could see them both dead.

Christine shuddered at the prospect and held more tightly to his cold hand.

xXx

Madame Giry told her daughter goodbye for the day, closing the door on Meg once she left for rehearsal at the small bistro where she recently obtained work as a dancer in a line of near-amateurs. The position was beneath what Madame wished for her well-trained daughter, but it helped to bring needed income, since Madame had not been as fortunate to find work yet. Of course, with her daily task, there had been little opportunity to do so.

Not sparing another second, she grabbed a basket concealed beneath her cloak, donned that and her matching black hat, and exited the small apartment. With only one room, the sleeping area cordoned off with a suspended blanket, it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, which is what some of the theater dwellers were left with after the Opera House disaster. Madame counted herself privileged to find this space for her and Meg, even cramped as it was.

She hailed a cab, barely able to afford the coins it took daily to get to her destination, but the expenditure was necessary. Their apartment was more than ten blocks from her old abode. Followed by the treacherous journey beneath ground, Madame, for all her well-earned strength, would be too exhausted after such a walk to perform what tasks she must by the time she arrived to her final destination.

As the horse trotted along the road, Parisians strode along either side, mostly commoners, busy about their day, while wheeled conveyances carried the upper crust of society. The rich, yeasty smell of bread lingered in the air due to the bakers who'd risen before dawn to prepare their morning offerings. On occasion, she would hear a distant piano or song in practice as her hired wagon passed the frequent bistro, which led her to thoughts of how Meg was faring, and of course she then thought of Christine.

She frowned at the recollection of the Vicomte arriving on her doorstep a little over a week ago, looking careworn and unkempt, as if he'd ridden all night without stopping.

"Where is she, Madame Giry?" he'd jumped in as a greeting. "Is she here?"

"Who…? Christine?" Madame asked in confusion.

"Of course, Christine!" he quietly exploded and shoved a hand through his unruly blond locks. "Forgive me, I'm at my wit's end. She disappeared from my cousin's chateau one night almost a week ago, telling the servant tending her that she was going to take a walk. I have had men search the area for days, with no trace of Christine. I had hoped…I had hoped she might have returned to Paris."

"She has not been here," Madame said with an equal amount of concern, though, in truth, the news did not come as a huge surprise.

Had she not known the Phantom's current situation, she might have suspected his involvement in the girl's disappearance. Yet, for once, Erik was innocent.

Madame had harbored reservations when Christine first told of her acceptance to Raoul's proposal. She had not seen in the young woman the desire and dedication toward the Vicomte necessary to make a good marriage. But she had kept silent, only warning Christine to be absolutely certain, not feeling it her place to do more than offer advice and caution where needed. Christine was a woman now, and had been raised with some level of independence to make her own decisions. Perhaps, she had realized her mistake and fled.

Her thoughts of last week jarred to a close with the sudden stop of the wagon. She paid the man his fare and made the pretense of entering the shop. Once the wagon moved away, she changed direction toward the back stage entrance of the opera house, the door there unlocked as she had left it. With the theatre's loss of production, the managers in ruin, no guard was there to nightly check the doors. Making her way through the empty hull of the deceased theatre, she walked past the auditorium of charred seats and the skeleton of the destroyed chandelier to the entrance that took her to the fifth cellar.

Retrieving a lantern, Madame slipped through the mirror door. Nothing had changed beyond the walls or beneath the floors, save for the absence of torchlight and flames from candles in the lowest cellar, a sign that had always signified its ghostly resident was lurking close by. Once she approached the quiet home of the renowned Phantom, she made her way to the recessed bedchamber, in which stood the massive four-poster bed wreathed in black.

Bandaged there, beneath its silk sheets, lay the renowned Opera Ghost.

Before his reign of terror ended, he had taken down the theatre in one crazed act of peril, the finale showcasing his revenge. Madame had been justifiably angered by his reckless cruelty, and at first opportunity, she ventured below to confront him – only to find him badly beaten and insensible, the victim of a bloodthirsty mob. Unable to drag him from the edge of the lake and to his bed, she recalled his rare mention of the one man he trusted – a Persian who lived in Paris.

With the intent to seek him out, she had been surprised to find a short, husky man, perhaps ten years her senior, with a peculiar red hat and odd clothes, waiting near her office. Wariness turned to relief upon discovering the Persian, who introduced himself as Monsieur Khan. He had heard about the opera house catastrophe and suspected Erik's involvement, there to find out more, Erik having told him of his association with Madame Giry.

Together they returned below, the two of them managing to get Erik into bed. The stab wound on his back, between the ribs, had been the worst of his injuries, though the chill of the icy lake had stanched the flow of blood, and quite surprisingly, there appeared to be no fatal internal bleeding, the blade having just missed his organs, according to Monsieur Khan's grave assessment. The gash on the good side of Erik's brow must have caused his unconscious state. His wreckage of a face she had not seen since the night they met as children, when she brought him to find this subterranean dwelling. Besides an instinctive flinch that stemmed from mild revulsion as much as pity, she set to work, helping the Persian as she could in tending Erik's wounds.

What she found most strange was that fresh soil had clung to his clothes, and what appeared to be the needles of fir trees – neither of which belonged to an underground cave. Indeed, it appeared as if he had rolled downhill out of doors. His clothes were also odd, a costume from a former time, centuries past, and not what he'd worn on the Don Juan stage.

Yet with his life in the balance, such peculiarities were disregarded and ignored, as she and his Persian friend struggled to keep the erstwhile Phantom in this world.

Since that night, almost two weeks ago, the man had not awakened.

Thus, when Madame walked into the dimly lit bedchamber, to see his eyes fixed on her, she could not refrain from a startled gasp.

Those steely grey orbs narrowed, and though it caused him clear pain, he lifted his hand to cover that side of his face.

"Woman – what have you done with my mask?"

It came as no surprise that would be the first thing he asked.

"I am sorry, monsieur. It was destroyed."

"DESTROYED!" He tried to sit up, only to immediately wince and fall back to the pillow, pressing one broad hand to his bandaged side. "You dare to remove and _dispose_ of my mask?! Foolish wench! What gave you the right?"

She was accustomed to his name-calling and firmed her shoulders. "It was ruined by the fire."

"Fire? What fire?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "The fire _you_ created when you cut down the chandelier."

 _"Chandelier?"_ He gave her glare for glare. "Gods' blood, what the devil are you on about? Are you daft? Where are my men? Where is Eustace?"

Eustace? Was that the Persian's name – Eustace Khan? She wondered what men he spoke of; the Phantom was notorious for being a recluse.

"If you mean your foreign friend, he helped me carry you up the steps and hoist you into that bed, then bound your wounds."

"And where is the oaf now? No doubt playing the drunkard with wine absconded from our last raid."

Raid?

"I have no idea where he is. Are you not concerned with what your vengeance has inflicted? To the theater? To the audience?" She took a stabilizing breath, daring to breach precarious territory. "To Christine?"

"I have no knowledge of what you speak? I know of no theater, no audience, no Christine."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"For that matter, I have no knowledge of where I am – or who the devil _you_ are!"

His expression, what she could see of it where the linen did not bind both sides of his face, appeared in earnest, his eyes cold, little emotion to them.

Perhaps she only misunderstood. "Of course you know me, monsieur. I have aided you for the past ten years in your tenure as the Opera Ghost, and Christine…" She did not wish to push him too far, only needed him to come to himself. "You abducted her the night of the Don Juan opening – surely you must remember that."

"I told you, I know of no such person. Bring me Eustace – _now!_ "

He had the appearance and voice of Erik, but the cold, blank eyes that regarded her held no recognition.

She must seek out the Persian - Eustace Khan. Before he had left that night, Monsieur Khan told her his place of residence if he should be needed again. Perhaps he could help puzzle out this matter of the Maestro's bizarre forgetfulness.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: This requested scene was a long time in coming, but I felt it needed the appropriate point of story to make its entrance. My research shows that amnesia, with that term being used - and the understanding of it - did not come about until the 1880s- and 19th century in story is year 1871, so I am trying to approach this as they would see it... eta: I want to clarify - they did not switch bodies - only places in time. Le Masque went to the 19th century, Erik to the 16th century. To refresh on exactly what happened, please refer to Chapter XV, in Lillith's POV. :)  
**


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